Dawn of a King: Rohan's Greatest Ruler
by Maethril Aranel
Summary: Some take the easy road to obscurity, and others the road laden with suffering that leads to greatness. Through the course of tragedy and pain, Eomer of Rohan must decide who and what he wants to be.
1. Chapter 1: Destiny's Call

**_A/N: _**Hi! This is my first fanfic, so please review. I like reviews. Constructive criticism is always useful and welcomed. I hope you enjoy! Oh, and I like to write LONG chapters; it's just in my nature. Very long. If you don't like that, you might want to skip over some of the fluff or just not read it (which would make me sad). 

**_Disclaimer: _**I do not own Lord of the Rings. That would be cool if I did; it would make me a genius like Tolkien. But, alas, I do not. Yet life must continue. _The Road Goes Ever On and On..._

**_Summary: _**This is an account of the life of Éomer, which follows the version told in the books. It tells of his journey from being orphaned as a boy to becoming one of the greatest kings of Rohan. LONG chapters. Rating subject to slight change as the story progresses. Please R/R!

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**Chapter 1: Destiny's Call**

_3002 TA, Edoras_

The soft touch of the evening glow cast warmth upon the tension that ruled Edoras, and the burden upon the hearts of its inhabitants was lightened, even if it was only a little. Conversation was scarce; the attempts at talk were only high-strung efforts to relieve apprehension and worry. A slight breeze and the singing of birds seemed no more than a mockery of the city's despair.

The wind ruffled the golden hair of a young boy of eleven winters, who sat upon the steps of his home, which stood near the Golden Hall. The house was humble, with a thatched roof common to the rest of the houses of Edoras, but upon the door was engraved the head of a horse and two crossed swords beneath it. The wooden frame was embroidered with gold. It signified that the house belonged to one of royal lineage, none less than the home of the King's own sister. And now it was his nephew, the young lord Éomer, who sat waiting upon its steps.

Two weeks had passed since Lord Éomund, Éomer's father and husband of Théodwyn, King Théoden's sister, had fool heartedly embarked on a pursuit of a small Orc raiding party against the King's protests. He had left with only a few companions at his side. Finally, the King had sent out six of the Rohirrim warriors to find them and hopefully bring them back alive.

Days later, Éomund's wife had fallen gravely ill, and his two young children kept constant vigilance-- Éomer spent long hours outdoors, waiting, making inquiries, hoping to receive new that his father had returned. His younger sister, Éowyn, was only seven, and usually stayed at her mother's side and awaited her brother's reports.

So it was on that fateful evening, and the sun began to drift down behind the peaks of distant mountains, that one of the guards blew one of the great trumpets, calling all of Edoras to attention.

"The lords have returned!" he called, shading his eyes and gazing out onto the horizon. "The Rohirrim ride to the city!"

At this announcement, King Théoden himself departed from his magnificent hall and led the people out to the plains. Éomer stood quickly and managed to push through the massive crowd until at last he stood at his uncle's side. They stopped about twenty yards out and watched as the stallions drew closer, and the thundering of their hooves against the worn ground could be heard even at a distance. As they neared, Éomer noted only six riders returning and saw no others-- no horses bore two riders. He felt his heart grow heavy. Somehow, he knew that the Rohirrim would bring ill tidings, although he tried to cling to a small amount of hope that discouraged that notion.

At last the horses came to a halt before the people of Edoras. The faces of the riders were lined with weariness from lack of sleep and constant riding, and when their gazes met that of the king, their expressions were grim and bitter. Across the back of one of the larger horses a body bag made of tarnished leather lay. Two of the Rohirrim took it from the exhausted creature's back and gently laid it on the ground. Then they turned and bowed low before the king. 

"Your report, Riders of Rohan?" asked Théoden. "What tidings do you bring with you?"

Lord Birgion, the Third Marshal of the Riddermark and lead rider of the expedition, came forth. "I am sorry, my king. The quest was in vain. We found them many leagues away, slain, the bodies piled and left to decay by the Orcs. We brought the body of Lord Éomund back to see proper burial or cremation. The rest were too great a burden to bear. We gave them a solemn service and buried them in the river, with hopes that the bodies of our kinsmen may be carried to the sea. It was all that we could do."

Théoden nodded slowly, his eyes downcast. "Very well. I thank you for your service. Go now and rest, and we will cremate the body of Lord Éomund. It is I who must now bear this grim news to my beloved sister."

With that, he turned, and the silent crowds parted, bowing slightly as he passed through.

Éomer said nothing. He stood still, his fragile frame trembling slightly as if taken by sudden cold. He stared at the body bag, unable to believe that in it was his father. He felt strangely devoid of emotion and did not feel a hand on his shoulder nor hear the many consolations offered to him. When Lord Birgion attempted to speak to him, he tore away and ran back through Edoras. The cobbled stone pathways hurt his bare, aching feet, and his eyes stung and his hair whipped into them. He did not stop running until he was once again at home, and went passed the room where Théoden was speaking to his mother. Éowyn stood in the corridor, tears in her eyes, and threw her arms around her brother as soon as he entered.

"Éomer!" she cried. "Father is gone! Uncle--" she broke off and was overcome with sobs. Éomer held her gently.

"I know, Éowyn," he said. "I know." he tried to hold in his own tears, but eventually they silently fell and wet his sister's hair, the same radiant gold as his. He heard hushed conversation coming from Théodwyn's room. His mother was strong, and never before had he heard her cry. Now she did-- although she did so quietly and managed to keep her dignity. Théoden was telling her that the cremation service was to be held the next day, at sundown.

Éomer had no more memories of that day and the next thenceforth. It went by in a blur of tears, consolations, commotion, preparation, and fitful dreams. However, the cremation was one that he would remember all his life.

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The sky was painted in red and gold the next day. The Golden Hall shone, yet none were left at that point in the city. All of its many inhabitants had gathered on a nearby hill before the funeral pyre, which had been set up for the cremation. Lord Éomund's body had been laid upon it. His cold hand gripped the hilt of his sword. Théoden stood in the foreground, with his sister by his side, and the children were there also. All were in mourning, as proven in their black clothing and expressionless faces.

Éomer stood by his mother. He no longer cried over his father's death; all his tears over that were spent. Yet he felt them rising as he gazed upon Théodwyn.

As the days passed since Éomund's departure her condition had worsened. Her entire body was trembling now, and it was not because of the grief that sent tears streaming down her face. Her skin was ghostly pale. Théoden looked at her with concern and sadness, and put an arm gently around her shoulder. Éomer reached over and took her hand.

Théodwyn looked down at her son and forced a smile. His eyes were brimming with crystal tears that he was trying to hold back, for her touch had given him more despair. Her hands were cold; as cold as ice. Éomer knew that she was ailing. His mother had fought strongly against her illness but it was starting to overcome her.

"Do not be afraid to give in to your tears, my love," she said.

"I must be strong, mother," he explained. "Father always told me to be proud. He told me that weakness would destroy a man."

Théodwyn gave a sad smile. "But what is weakness, my son? Love and fear are not weaknesses, nor is valuing life a weakness. The only true weakness is pride and arrogance, for they are destructive. There is a time to be proud of our accomplishments. Yet there is also a time to grieve, to mourn. Strength is only identifiable in men who are able to admit to their sorrow and fear. A man who does not feel these emotions is a fool."

Éomer let the meaning of these words sink in, and did not stop the tears once they began to fall. The Rohirrim warriors surrounded the pyre, dressed in full armor, the gold of their helmets catching the last rays of the setting sun and gleaming. Their swords were solemnly crossed over their chests. Two came forward, and, as they lit the pyre, another began to sing in the tongue of old with a deep voice that resonated throughout the land of Rohan:

_Winter is enduring and finches_

_abandon song,_

_Eyes no longer seeing with the warmth _

_of summer gone._

_Where does the horse-lord dwell, in shadow_

_beyond the light,_

_Sunlight wanes ere break of dawn and passes_

_before its time._

_Stallion runs over plains alone in search of _

_fallen rider, _

_Star in the heavens dims and fades instead of_

_burning brighter. _

_Flames of fire no more than ashes and trumpets_

_have ceased to sound,_

_Tears in the eyes of a fatherless child flow _

_to barren ground._

_A sword of silver steel is held in cold_

_and lifeless hand, _

_What was mighty once is buried now beneath _

_the shifting sand._

_Strong and weak exist no more for in _

_the end all fall,_

_Voice in darkness reaches out to answer _

_destiny's call. _

The flames gave forth a great heat as well as the smell of burning flesh. Éowyn turned away to avoid it, for when one looked upon it would sting the eyes. Théodwyn put her arm around them both. Éomer could feel his eyes burning and the warmth of the fire was nearly overwhelming, yet he refused to turn away.

Eventually the fire died down and was extinguished, at which point the body was no more than a heap of ashes. Théodwyn stepped forth and collected her husband's ashes in an urn, then beckoned to the children to follow her. The people parted and allowed them to walk farther out into the plains, until they stood about ten yards away. Théodwyn closed her eyes briefly, feeling the wind upon her brow, and then slowly released the ashes. "_Suil Ennui, erio thûl lín i faer hen,_" she whispered solemnly. Éomer looked up at her in awe, for never before had he heard his mother speak in the Elven tongue. For a few moments they stood in silence. Then the procession back to Edoras began.

Éomer never thought to feel pain that penetrated as deeply as the loss of his father... until a fortnight later, when the illness claimed Théodwyn and her ashes were released to ride the wind with Éomund's.

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**Suil Ennui, erio thûl lín i faer hen-- **Western Winds, may your breath lift this spirit.

_**Coming Soon:** _Éomer and Éowyn go to live in the Great Hall with Théoden. As Éomer grows, he begins to learn the ways of war: the glory as well as the horror. Can he rise up to become a great warrior? And is Théoden being lured into dark ways by the sweet bribery of a dangerous traitor?

**Please review!!!**


	2. Chapter 2: The Might of the Horselords

**_Hi. Well, this is Chapter 2. I don't get many reviewers, only 3, but I will try to make it good for those few people who are interested. After this fic is done there are others on the way that might get some more attention, but for now, here's the second part of my Éomer fic! J_**

_**Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien wrote Lord of the Rings, not me. Any who do not know that are simpletons and need to get out more. **_

_**Little bit o' angst in this chappie though not much action. Action will come later. Bear with me. **_

**_This text has been edited, due to an error that one of my reviewers pointed out to me. Thanks! I hope it's better now. If something contradicts itself, let me know, I might have missed it._**

Chapter 2: The Might of the Horse-Lords

_3006 TA, Edoras_

After their parents' deaths, and Éomer and Éowyn were sent to live in the Great Hall with Théoden and his family. Théodred was the King's son, and a fine warrior at 28 years of age, who acted as a mentor to his young cousins. He had been one of the Rohirrim already when Éomund had died but had not attended the funeral due to a virus. After awhile, he and Éomer grew to be like brothers to one another, and slowly, Éomer began to adjust to his new life.

Théoden treated the children as his own. He was a kind man, and warm and loving, but because of his royal duties he seldom could spare a full day to spend time with them, as well as with his son. So Éomer spent most of his time with the Rohirrim warriors, whom he was introduced to by Théodred. They worked in the stables with the horses much of the time and helped the stable boys. However, Éomer most enjoyed being in the armory, helping the warriors prepare for their scouting missions. The weapons and armor fascinated him. On the rare occasions when he was left alone to his boyish whims and fancies, he would imagine himself someday, a Rohirrim warrior on horseback with his own sword and bearing the armor of his people. He would watch as the horse-lords rode out into the distance, with the trumpets blaring and their banners caught high in the breeze, tall spears glinting like tiny stars and their golden helmets shining. He would watch until they disappeared beyond his range of sight. Théoden had told Éomer that one day, he would be one of those warriors, as his own son was. He would ride and bring honor to Rohan. So he practiced with weapons in the yard, fencing other boys and squires with wooden practice swords, and learning archery and well as how to wield battle axes and spears, although the sword was his weapon of choice.

It had been intended that Éowyn be raised by the maids of the Great Hall, to learn their ways, as well as a minimal amount of swordplay- it was well known by the women of Rohan that those without swords were helpless. However, her lessons bored her. She persisted in following her brother. Éomer grew to accept this, although he was reluctant to do so. He had to admit that Éowyn had naturally talent in the wielding of a sword- maybe even more than he had himself. Of course, Éomer would never mention this to any.

Four years passed, at good times they seemed to pass quickly, and at ill times the rising and setting of the sun seemed to come ever so slowly. However, pass they did, and Éomer grew into a handsome youth of fifteen years. Éowyn was eleven. Both were still considered children, but they were beginning to abandon childish ways and accept more responsibilities in the Golden Hall and in Edoras. There was more work to be done and less time to waste. Éomer and Éowyn groomed horses and helped with chores around their home. They would go out into the city, and give the King reports of anything they saw that seemed to be amiss. Éomer's least favorite task of all was cleaning out the dungeons. He hated the claustrophobic feeling, the darkness, the hopelessness, and sometimes prisoners of war who were being held in there taunted him and made him feel uncomfortable. Théoden had warned him of this. He had said that the dungeons were a dreary place, where no one liked to spend their time, and it was a man's job to see that they were cleaned- which was why he entrusted it to Éomer and not too any of the other boys, whom he either deemed too young or could not trust.

It was Éomer's fifteenth name day. He was cleaning in the stables with some of the stable boys; his sister and cousin had been called to some other duties in the Hall. The early morning light was streaming in through the open door. His spirits were unusually high that morning, and he found himself making somewhat pleasant conversation with the stable boys, apprentices and squires who were working with him. Most of the older ones, including him, were already starting to train to become Rohirrim fighters. Éomer had the honor of grooming Snowmane. His uncle's horse was beautiful, one of his favorites, though the king had not chosen to ride her this time, and she was of a good temper so she was easy to work with.

"Do they not allow you to spend your name day with the King?" one of the boys, Kierian, asked. He was polishing horseshoes while sitting on a haystack.

"My uncle has not yet returned," Éomer answered. "He said that once he arrives, we will spend the remainder of the day together, along with my sister and his son."

Kierian smiled, although it seemed to be slightly more of a smirk. "You're very lucky, Éomer. Most of us hardly know the King. I'm surprised you spend your time conversing with commoners like us."

One of the older boys in another stall, a few years Éomer's senior, snorted indignantly. "Lord Éomer has special privileges. He's _related _to the king. Do you not see? Even when he lowers himself to the stables with us, he grooms the king's mare, while the rest of us are not allowed to go near her. He always carries his royal air. He treats with the King regularly. Why shouldn't he see himself as better than us?"

Éomer glanced at the other stall. He had received such ridicule many times and long learned to ignore it, although at times his temper could still get the better of him. Snowmane gave a whinny and he realized that he had tightened his grip on her hair and pulled it. He released it and soothed the horse, letting the other boy's words slip out of his mind.

Suddenly, the trumpets sounded. The boys all looked up, and, giving one another surprised looks, and dropped their things before running outside.

None of the Rohirrim had left the city, so the trumpets rang for another reason. A group was returning from dealings with some of the Rangers and Gondorian warriors. Éomer saw Éowyn emerge from the hall. His sister ran to him, her bare feet kicking up dust and her golden hair streaming out behind her. She was dressed in a boy's working tunic. Many of the common people crowded the entrance to the city, waiting to see if their King had returned.

"Is our uncle back?" asked Éowyn.

"I don't know," Éomer answered. "From here it's hard to tell if that's the party he rode out with."

They pushed through the crowded streets of Edoras and watched as the Rohirrim began to ride through the gates. Many shields and helmets were dented, and some tunics stained with blood. Some had suffered serious injuries and were taken immediately to be seen by the healers. Éomer moved forward until he reached one of the younger riders.

"What happened, my lord?" he inquired. "Did the events go ill?"

The rider nodded weakly. "We were ambushed by a party of Goblins, my lord. It has been long since Goblins have been seen in such numbers as we are seeing them now. However, their attacks are becoming more frequent and we have yet to find out what it means. We lost two men. Many suffered injuries, some are seriously wounded."

"Where is the king?" blurted Éowyn. The rider looked at her and his eyes flashed briefly with anger before it ebbed. Girls were not supposed to demand such things of men. Éomer elbowed her gently, and she glared at him. Éowyn did not usually pay heed to courtesies.

"The King is riding, my lady," he said quietly. They breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "He was not seriously wounded, but enough that he yielded the head of the party to one of the generals. See? There is our king now, who fought bravely and fiercely as always."

The children muttered some rushed words of thanks and hurried to Théoden's side. Théodred rode by his father, his expression worrisome.

"Uncle!" Éowyn cried. "Are you all right? Are your men all right?"

Théoden bore a gash in his arm and across his forehead, and was slumped in the seat. He managed, however, to smile weakly and dismount without assistance. "Yes, we will manage," he said with sadness in his eyes. "We suffered two losses…good men, good fighters, men that I mourn and will miss sorely. I must see that these wounds are tended too; only after they see to the wounds of my men of course." He gave another sad smile and put a hand on Éomer's shoulder. "Then I have something for you, Éomer. I have not forgotten your name day."

Éomer managed to smile. "You are wounded, Uncle. Your men must be tended to. My name day is of no great importance."

"Of course it is," said Théoden. "And you best remember it, for only when a man knows his own value and importance can he truly serve others." With that, the king went to help the wounded soldiers.

"You, young lady," called a voice, one of the elderly women who served as healers. Éowyn looked up. "Come and help in the healing hall. We need everyone who can help."

Éomer could see his sister's reluctance; she hated tending to the sick in the healing hall. She gave her brother a look and trudged off after the women and other girls.

Théodred noticed the look of worry on his young cousin's face. "Worry not, Éomer," he said.

Éomer nodded. "Are you all right, cousin?"

Théodred was nearly unscathed. "The battle was fierce, but short. We were able to prevail. You will see that many of the men did not

Éomer was then instructed to return to his duties. He murmured goodbye to his cousin and was on his way back to the stables when he was told to help in the armory, with the weapons and armor of the Rohirrim. As can be imagined, he was very content to do this instead, and reported there at once. However, Éomer's mind was unsettled. How could the Rohirrim have nearly been defeated by an ambush of Goblins? They seldom left the Misty Mountains, but now they were leaving more often. Yet Éomer supposed he had gotten used to the silly notion that the army of Rohan was invincible.

The armory was adjacent to the stables, so that the warriors could be suited and mounted quickly when needed. It was large and filled with sunlight that reflected off the many golden helmets and breastplates, as well as off the swords that were mounted on the walls. Many of the higher ranked fighters preferred to keep their armor and weapons in their own private chambers. Éomer understood this; if it were him, he would want to keep his weapons and armor in his own chambers so as not to be confused with those of others—even though each warrior's things were kept separate. The young squires who worked in the armory often messed things up.

Éomer was soon joined by a few other boys. Not long after, Rohirrim warriors and healers began to come in, bearing armor and weapons to be put away and cleaned. Éomer had the task of polishing. He and some others were cleaning the dirty metal until it shined, and if armor came in that was severely dented, it would be redirected to the smithy. He spent many hours there. The armory soon became crowded and stuffy, and his arm ached from rubbing. There was much to be done. Finally, as the sun was beginning to set, a servant entered the armory.

"Lord Éomer's presence is requested by the king," he said. "He asks that you report to the Hall."

Éomer was relieved to finally be able to leave, although work there was preferable to the stables. He ignored the jealous glances that followed him outside. The sunlight was growing dim. He followed the servant up the steps of the Hall, and looked up as they were ascending the steps at the way the golden pillars and roof shined. This was his home. It had been for the past four years, and it always would be. He looked forward to spending time with his family after working hard.

Théoden was seated on his throne in the main room. At his side were two of his knights, his friends and advisors, and Théodred and Éowyn as well. Théoden smiled broadly when Éomer entered.

"Éomer," he said, standing. "You are growing into a fine young man, with extraordinary fighting skills."

"Thank you, Uncle," Éomer said, giving a slight bow.

"You have already begun to train with the Rohirrim. You train with the squires, fighting with the practice swords, at times brandishing steel. But now I recognize your growth into manhood. Therefore, I would like to present you with this."

With that, one of the knights came forth, bearing a sheathed long sword. He knelt before the young lord and held it up to him. Éomer tried to conceal his excitement. He took the sword and unsheathed it, looking at the length of the pure, unstained steel blade and the unique hilt of winding horse heads that wrapped around the blade rather than joining in the center. It was truly a work of art.

"I had it made especially for you," Théoden said. "The hilt is different from the style of most Rohirrim swords, although the horses on the hilt are a sign of royal lineage."

Éomer stared, dumfounded. "Uncle…thank you. Thank you so much. I don't know what else to say…"

Théoden smiled. "It is called Guthwine. Long may you bare it in the name of the Mark."

The knights then left the room, and Éomer laid his mighty gift to the side. He spent the rest of the evening with his uncle, cousin and sister, and they dined together and shared much conversation and laughter. Théoden told them that he wished he could set aside more time to help in their upbringing, but that he was proud of their accomplishments, and that night everything went well. However, Éomer couldn't help feeling that something was wrong with his uncle. At times he appeared to be in pain, and would hold his head in his hands, and his eyes were rimmed with red. Éomer decided to ask as night fell. Éowyn had been sent to bed, after much protest, and he remained alone in the throne room with his uncle and cousin.

Théodred yawned. "Father," he said. "I take my leave for the night, though the moon is yet young. I'm afraid the riding wore me. It has been an eventful day."

"You fought well, my son," said Théoden. "Rest well."

Théodred gave a slight bow. "Good night, father, until the morrow. To you as well, Éomer, and happy name day." With that, the king's son retired and left Éomer with his uncle.

"Uncle," he asked. "Are you all right? You are sure that your wounds were only minor?"

"Yes, yes, my lad," the king answered with indifference. "I just had a bit of a headache, and the fighting and the heat of the day added to it. I grieve for the men we lost. At my age these things are common." He gave his nephew a smile. "Now the hour is late. I desire some rest, and you should get some too."

Éomer hesitated a moment. "Tell me something, Uncle," he said. "Did the Rohirrim really come close to defeat at the ambush?"

Unashamedly, Théoden nodded. "Too close. You will find, Éomer, as you grow, that glory and triumph are not all they're made out to be, and that no army can win every time. Even the might of the horse-lords is not infallible."

Éomer remained silent for a moment. Then he walked over to the throne, next to which he had placed Guthwine. "Thank you, Uncle," he said. He was thanking his uncle for everything—for the evening, the gift, and for being his father for the past four years. There were no more words that he could say to express his gratitude.

"You're welcome, Éomer," he said quietly. Éomer smiled at his uncle and took his sword to his chambers, ready to rest for the night.

* * *

Théoden watched his nephew's retreating back. Once he had left, Théoden himself sought out the solitude of his private chambers. There, the king finally let go. 

He had kept his calm for his nephew's sake. But this pain in his mind, it was unlike anything Théoden had ever felt before. He waved away the servants who offered to help him. His vision was blurred, and his head was pounding like the drums he had heard when they had fought. The pain was intense. He had lied to his son, his nephew, to the healers, to everyone. This was nothing like he had ever felt before. Théoden collapsed onto his bed.

_You were almost defeated yesterday, Théoden King. _

Voices. One voice, actually. Or was it? Whatever it was, this was the third night in a row that it had plagued him. Each time, it seemed to eat away at his hope, at his will. What was happening?

_Who are you? _Théoden asked silently.

_I am your greatest friend…or your worst enemy. It all depends on your willingness. Open your mind to me, and there will be no pain. _

_You cannot control me. _

_Then I suppose if you will not yield I must pry it open myself. _

Then another onslaught of pain arrived, only stronger. Théoden ground his teeth to keep from crying out, and clutched at his head. Thoughts and images flashed before his mind's eye…thoughts not his own that seemed to have no order. Anger, Joy, Triumph, Humiliation, and Agony, they all came as one in an attack of some sort of dark magic. Théoden tried to fight back. However, try as he might, his vision was darkening, and he could feel himself slipping into a state of unconsciousness.

As everything went black, the last thing Théoden of Rohan heard was an echo of his own words:

_Not even the might of the horse-lords is infallible…_

_**No translations, yay. I'm lazy, sorry. **_

**_Coming soon: Théoden slips more and more under Saruman's control. Can Éomer and Théodred take command of the army as animosity begins to grow between the twoso, enter Wormtongue…_**

_**Please review! (I hope to get at least 3 again)**_


	3. Chapter 3: Never Surrender

_**Hello to all, thank you so much for giving me more than three reviews! I was a happy person. I'm really glad people are showing an interest in the Rohirrim and in Éomer. **_

**_Disclaimer: Olay says the speckled dragon bunny, who has replaced the little guy known as Disclaimer. Disclaimers bug me. Speckled dragon bunny says that rights to LOTR belong to the genius of Tolkien and none other, especially not me, cuz I'm no Tolkien obviously. Maybe Disclaimer will return in the future when I grow weary of neotony. _**

_**There's not enough detail about Éomer in the appendixes, so I made up pretty much all of the events in this chapter, sorry. I tried to make them consistent with what was going on around that time. Goblins and Orcs roamed the mountains, as well as other servants of the Dark Lord, so I decided to have Éomer have a bit of a run-in with them. Small reference to the current whereabouts and actions of Gandalf and Aragorn. Wormtongue is here, I wasn't quite sure when he was supposed to come into the picture. **_

_**Here be third chappie. I had a bit of trouble with it. If it's not that great, let me know, I will do what I can. **_

Chapter 3: Never Surrender

_3009 TA, The Misty Mountains_

Éomer looked out at the distant horizon. His horse shifted restlessly, loosening the soft earth beneath its feet. The stallion did not like standing on the narrow mountain path without moving somewhat. Yet something about the bloodred hue of the sunset intrigued Éomer.

"Cousin, you must keep moving," came a voice from behind him, bearing an undertone of impatience. Éomer turned to look at Théodred. His cousin was 31 now, and one of the most courageous of the Rohirrim fighters, yet things had been different ever since Théoden changed. The king's son had grown somewhat haughty. At times, Éomer feared his friendship with his cousin, whom he had once considered like a brother, was waning. Their age difference seemed to be having an effect on it as well. He gently urged his horse forward and they turned up the path into an open area of the mountain.

There was a light cover of snow on the ground, but it always snowed in the Misty Mountains, and the temperature was mild. Éomer led his stallion to a fallen tree beside the mouth of a cave and there dismounted. He awaited the arrival of the rest of his troupe. The Rohirrim came up, one by one, and followed Éomer's example of taking a break to rest.

Théodred came up beside his cousin as they tended their horses. "So what do you plan to do?"

"We came to scout, not to fight. We are only trying to find Goblin trails in the mountains and see if there are any signs of Orc."

"We should be attacking!" said Théodred angrily. "Why must we do these monotonous scouting missions and take no action?"

Éomer sighed. "Because your lord father commands it, Théodred."

Théodred shook his head. "You are young, cousin, and far too cautious. A true warrior follows his own mind when it comes to matters of war, not the word of a man who no longer knows his own name." He stalked away.

Absentmindedly, Éomer stroked his horse's soft mane, deep in thought. They _should _be doing something. Théoden was not fit to rule. Sometimes, Éomer blamed himself, for since that fateful day three years ago nothing had been the same—and he had not been able to stop what happened to his uncle. What had truly happened, no one really knew.

Also, he would command the Rohirrim based on the words of his advisor. Gríma had come about two years ago. Although Gríma pretended to have Théoden's best interests at heart, Éomer did not trust the man. There was something devious about him. More than a few times he had seen Gríma staring after his fourteen-year-old sister, for Éowyn's beauty was beginning to flower. It was unnerving to leave her with him. Besides, it seemed that Gríma used bribery on the king far too often. And as the soldiers repeated scouting missions, Éomer could not help but feel that there was other work to be done, that the king, unfit to rule, was turning a blind eye to trouble that was said to be brewing. Somewhere the armies were truly needed; not here. Not now.

Éomer had recently turned eighteen. He was a man grown, yet still things confused him, especially this business about his uncle. It seemed lately that he was falling more and more under some sort of spell. His few actions were bitter, but most of the times he sat on his throne, with glazed eyes and his mind elsewhere.

A rueful time indeed for such to occur. Shadows were growing in the East. Whispers had reached Edoras of the Dark Lord, regaining power, of rumors that the Ring of Power had been found. Gandalf the Grey rode throughout Mirkwood and Rhovanion with one of the Rangers, searching for the treacherous creature Gollum. War was brewing…a great war, the doom of the Third Age. Éomer could feel it. The mountains and eastern lands were no longer safe. It was said that in this very area of the Misty Mountains, Sauron's servants treated with Goblins.

"Will we set up camp for tonight, Lord Éomer? The sunlight will be spent soon enough."

Éomer turned to the soldier who had questioned him and nodded. The caves were large and warm, and plenty enough to house the twenty-odd men he had in his company. The horses would like to rest for the night as well. The space was open, with many a place in the rock to tether the animals to in which they could rest comfortably.

The sun sank low and the blanket of night began to slowly work its way across the sky.

* * *

Gríma looked at King Théoden from a distance. The old man was falling more and more under Saruman's control, he thought with a sneer. Every day his own will weakened. 

_You will be handsomely rewarded, Gríma, _had been the wizard's words.

_How so, master? _

_You will have your share of the gain…I promise you. _

Saruman had offered him more than being a man of Rohan ever had. Now, he nearly had Rohan under his very rule, for Théoden trusted him wholeheartedly and obeyed his every whim. Ah, for the king to be such as a puppet in his hands! Gríma licked his thin lips in devious glee.

His gaze was then averted to the slim figure who entered the room. Her golden hair was mussed, and her clothes dirty, but she was lovely and shapely nonetheless, and despite her young age as well. Gríma found that his stare often lingered on the Lady Éowyn—she was so lovely, yet always so depressed. It was an enigma that he found himself thinking about constantly.

It was the other two that posed a problem. Théodred, the king's son, was certain that Gríma had something to do with the king's state, and had already threatened him once. How much longer before the prince found out? He was much too suspicious. Gríma knew that he may have to exterminate this threat. Éomer, too, knew too much for his own good. They both regarded the king's advisor with hostility and kept a close watch over him. The only way for the plan to be carried through was to make the king send them away as much as possible. Then again, Gríma knew that none of the Rohirrim bore any love for him. _Wormtongue, _they called him when they thought he had turned a deaf ear to their conversation. They did not know that their name befit him only too well.

"Gríma, I am in need of your counsel," came a weak voice. The king had turned his pale eyes over to his advisor, to the dark corner where Gríma lurked in the shadows. Éowyn sat near her uncle, sadness in her expression, and she turned her face downcast.

_You will have your share of the gain…I promise you. _

"I come, master…"

* * *

'Twas not any loud sound in the night, nor was it furious wind that woke Éomer from his sleep. It was an uncertain feeling following an odd dream. 

In his dream, a ship had been waiting at bay. The waters were calm and passive, dark under the evening sky but reflecting glints of moonlight and starlight. The ship's crew was sleeping silently beneath the deck. Suddenly, dark clouds had coated the sky, and ruptured in the middle in a large crack. From them came forth a black shadow that took the form of a ghostly ship with tattered sails. The dark ship overtook the waiting one, sweeping over it, and groups of indistinguishable shadows slew the men, and took the rest captive, sweeping them aboard their own ship and into darkness. When they had left, nothing had remained but broken remnants of the vessel's wooden body.

Éomer had awoken with a start. He sat up, and looked all about him. There was no sound save for the usual ones men make in sleep. Nothing seemed unusual. Even the horses were restful, for the night was clear and not too cold. Nothing seemed terribly amiss.

Sighing, Éomer tried to ease himself back into sleep, but not before reaching for Guthwine and drawing the great sword up beside him from its position propped against the cave wall. He shut his eyes but could not get the foreboding feeling out of his heart as he fell into a troubled sleep.

* * *

The next morning, the mountain peaks were bathed in the early red and gold hues of the sunrise, and the men of Rohan continued their scouting of the various trails. 

Théodred and Éomer led the unit that they had slept with the night before. The other flanks were carrying out their duties in other parts of the Misty Mountains. The paths that wound up to the summit were somewhat narrow, and several times the horses nearly lost their footing. Éomer could feel himself growing impatience. He saw no sign of any Orcs, nor of Goblins, and what foolhardy folk would make an encampment in clear view, even this high in the mountains? Would they not choose a place darker, fouler, in the bowels of the mountains? Éomer had heard that Goblins dwelled in the heart of these mountains once, but that they had fallen into ruin once their leader was slain. Yet that was so long ago...

"My lord Théodred! My lord Éomer!" came a breathless voice.

The two cousins turned to see one of the Rohirrim of another flank come galloping up the trail to join them and the other men of their unit. His horse was weary, and he was breathless, so he had obviously been riding hard.

"What do you report, rider of Rohan?" asked Théodred.

The man pointed down the path. "Last night, my leaders came across a party of Orcs and Goblins near the foot of the mountains. They had set up an encampment deep in the heart of a cave. There is not many; but there is forty at least, so they instructed us to fetch this unit. It took me an entire night's worth of riding to reach you here. We must slay them, but keep one for questioning."

Théodred and Éomer shared a brief glance. Éomer understood what his cousin was thinking...yet to go against the king's orders? But when the king's orders meant for them to let be a group that could be a danger to the free folk of Middle-Earth...

"Lead us to them," Éomer said.

* * *

Late afternoon was approaching by the time the Rohirrim led by Théodred and Éomer reached the foot of the opposite side of the mountain- it was indeed a long ways. One of the marshals, by the name of Terin, was the leader of this group, and greeted the others when they arrived. Théodred went aside with him for private counsel. He then returned, and notified Éomer of what had been occuring. 

"Not a cave, really," he said. "But if you follow that narrow path that has been formed in the rock, it leads to a large, open area. That is our enemy has been spotted. A clever place to hide, but not clever enough."

Éomer looked deep into the dark path, which lay some yards away. The men spoke in hushed voices so as not to make their existence known. It was just wide enough for three horses to walk abreast; and went so deep that it proved impossible to see what lay within...except to wander within oneself. His hand wandered to Guthwine's hilt.

"Was there no guard?" he asked.

Théodred shook his head. "Our guess is that they did not want their whereabouts to be obvious. Few would venture into such a place without cause."

Éomer fell silent for a moment. "Do we strike now?"

"Terin thinks we should, while daylight is still on our side."

"And what do you say?"

"I agree."

Éomer nodded his consent. He joined Terin and Théodred in joining the ranks into groups of three.

"We have to enter quietly," instructed Théodred. "When you reach the last length, spur your horses to a gallop, before they've time to gather their weapons and such." He then moved to the front, and Éomer and Terin rode at his side. He pointed forth his sword, and the blade gleamed, reflecting the sun's rays.

"Forth, sons of Eorl!"

Éomer entered alongside his two companions. The next three followed only a few feet behind. They kept their horses at a walk, going as slow as possible, but the confines caused the hoof beats to echo somewhat. The Rohirrim drew their swords and raised their spears; others notched arrows.

As they continued, torchlight could finally be seen in the distance, and murmurs could be heard.

"We will be in hearing range soon," Éomer said.

Théodred nodded. "May Eru watch over you, my cousin," he said quietly.

"And you as well."

Terin remained silent, his gaze fixed solidly ahead.

Finally, Théodred gave a quiet command to charge.

Éomer took his stallion to a gallop, and could feel the wind as the wall rushed past him, only a few inches away. Guthwine felt light in his hand. The entrance to the cavern was drawing nearer and nearer, until Éomer could see their enemies, sitting around a small fire and discussing matters in their fetid voices. Several had stood and gone towards the entrance to see what this sound was that was coming their way...

Upon entering the cavern, Éomer went to the right, Terin to the left, and Théodred down the center. The other riders that followed separated in the same manner. The place was soon filled with commotion, starting with the first cry as Éomer, Théodred, and Terin cut down those foes that had come to the entrance.

Guthwine drank deeply of the enemy's blood. Soon, its stainless blade was coated in darkness that shone a deathly red in the torchlight, and Éomer could feel his own blood running down his face, leaking into his eyes and blurring his vision.

The air soon reeked of blood and chaos. The Orcs and Goblins fell about them, yet Éomer had not time to look and see to the safety of his own men amidst the confusion. Nor did the rest—for all had given themselves up to the lust of battle. But now and then, Éomer would hear the scream of a dying horse, a horrible sound that echoed in his mind and that remained with him in every battle...

By now, the cavern seemed so much smaller, and the walls almost seemed to close in, for the forty who had before been in it had been dwarfed by its side—but now, joined by about fifty men on horseback, there was not much breathing room. A few of the Rohirrim fought by the entrances in order to block those attempting to flee.

The number was growing to be less and less. Their battlefield had been bloodied, and was laden thick with the bodies of the dead, and few remained standing.

"Hold!" shouted Théodred. Éomer's arm was eager, and he looked around for more of the fetid creatures to slay but found none. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered it.

Six of the men had cornered one Orc, a small, foul creature with a greedy and fearless look in his crazed gray eyes. He raised his scimitar but it was quickly knocked aside.

Éomer dismounted. He and Théodred went over to the last remaining Orc, parting the ways of the Rohirrim around him. Théodred grabbed the creature by the neck and pulled him close. He raised his sword in front of its eyes, making sure that it saw the blood-soaked steel.

"Let me make myself clear," he said. "I am going to ask you a few questions, and you are going to answer them without hesitation, or I will make your death slow. Is that understood?"

The Orc said nothing, but Éomer thought he saw a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Whom do you serve?"

"The Dark Lord..."

Théodred looked briefly to his companions, then back to his prisoner. "What does your master want in these lands?"

The Orc's smile became evident now. "You think I would tell you, to hold to life?"

Théodred tightened his hold on the creature's throat. "Answer me."

Now his prisoner laughed aloud, mockingly. "You think you can win this war. But I will never yield to you, man of Rohan. The Orc yield to no one. The war is only brewing, and the storm has not yet begun. But when it does...you will never see your enemies surrender."

"Théodred!" cried Éomer, but he was too far to do anything.

He could only watch as the Orc's hands found the grip of a hunting dirk that hung at Théodred's waist and plunged it into his own neck...and Théodred stepped back in horror, watching as black blood sprayed forth from the creature's neck in a dark fountain...

* * *

Two days later, Edoras could be seen in the distance. Yet the Rohirrim did not rejoice. They returned home with heavy hearts, for after the Orc had taken his own life, they had turned to see that six of the Rohirrim warriors had fallen. 

They had no place to bury the men, and would never have burned them along with the carcasses of the Orcs and Goblins. Théodred had finally led the men in a small ceremony, and released the bodies gently into a nearby river, though they had no barge in which to bear the warriors.

"May the waters carry you hence to the seas, my brothers," Éomer had whispered.

Now they had to report this grievous news to the king—not only that six of his men had fallen, but that there was indeed dark activity in the lands, and that the servants of Sauron went free.

The Rohirrim walked slowly into the Golden Hall, leaving behind them crowds of people who had seen them return. Théodred and Éomer walked at the front. They arrived at the throne and bowed before the king.

"My lord father…" began Théodred. Then he looked up.

Théoden's skin was pallid and his face drawn. His eyes were distant and did not glance once in his son's direction. His hair, white and thin, hung limply on his face, and his lips were slightly parted. Finally, his eyes wandered, and rested on Théodred and Éomer in an unsettling fashion.

"You are late," he said hoarsely. "Can a man not even see a simple mission carried through by his own kin?"

Éomer was startled. This change in Théoden was drastic. Had it happened during their absence? "Uncle, we—"

Théoden raised his hand, commanding silence. "I am too weary for this talk now. Be gone from my sight, and I will come to you later."

Éomer saw defeat and hopelessness in Théodred's eyes as they turned slowly and began to retreat from the hall. The last thing he saw before turning was Gríma Wormtongue, his eyes gleaming and his lips pursed, as he stroked the arm of the throne with skeletal fingers.

As they retreated from the hall, Éomer felt tears in his eyes and knew not why. He furiously kept them back.

_Do I feel the desire to weep for my fallen comrades, for my uncle's state, for the deceiver at his side...for what? _

Then the answer became clear.

_I weep for Rohan...not only for Rohan, but for all of Middle-Earth, and those people who may just meet their ruin in the dark years to come..._

_For the unknowing ship that is to be swept off into fathomless shadows. _

The war was indeed only brewing. But as Éomer tried to put the thought of Gríma's dark eyes behind him, he thought of the enemy, and of the Orc's last words, and found himself making a promise in his mind.

_Do not think yourself invincible, Sauron. I swear upon the graves of all those who have lost their lives to your shadow that you have not seen the last of the Rohirrim, nor the last of me. _

_Never, Sauron, will you see Éomer of Rohan surrender. _

* * *

_**Ok, there it is, I hope it was ok, I had a lot of trouble with it, because this is the time period in Éomer's life that barely anything is known about. **__**In future chapters, as Théoden's condition worsens, I plan to follow the movie's idea that he is possessed by Saruman rather than merely influenced by him. Sorry, I just think I can make it more interesting that way. In the rest of the events I will try to follow the book, including that Éomer will be imprisoned, not exiled, and meet Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli before that. The year span between chapters 3 and 4 will be ten years, the longest one yet, cuz Éomer's eighteen in this chapter. He is 28 during the War of the Ring (3019 TA), which is when he meets everyone.**_

_**Coming soon: The War of the Ring is underway, and Éomer hears of Orcs descending into Emyn Muil. He pursues them against the king's orders, meeting Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli on his return…and, upon returning, is sentenced to imprisonment. Will he be able to save his uncle and sister from Wormtongue's corruption?**_

_**Please review! (I'm ok with flames)**_


	4. Chapter 4: No Life Lives Forever

**_Greetings once again! I give to you Chapter 4. I asked all my readers to please review, even if it's just one-liners and if they don't like the story...I just really like to get reviews. You see, I am in competition with a hunk of warm cheese, who recently posted and has only three less reviews than me, although the cheese only has one chapter and I now have four. Don't let me be upstaged by a food item, please! (I encourage you to read A Hunk of Warm Cheese's story, though, because it's hilarious. Legsagorn, help me out with reviews wink wink) _**

**_I originally had the whole episode with Aragorn and posse happening in this chapter, but I realized that it made the chapter way too long, about twice as long as a regular one. Also, I wasn't sure if Théodred actually died at the scene of the battle as some accounts said or, like in the movie, was taken to Edoras alive and died there. I used the first instance (Eokat: If I have an error there, please let me know and I will change it.)_**

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings, but I do own a very nice pair of slipper with monkeys holding bananas which I have named Frodo and Sam. **_

_**Second Disclaimer: Events from here on out will be consistent with the books, so on parts that were actually in the books, most the dialogue will be Tolkien's...but I will make some subtle changes, and naturally it will be from Éomer's viewpoint.**_

Chapter 4: No Life Lives Forever

_3019 TA, the Fords of Isen_

Rain poured down heavily from an ever darkened sky, and beneath, a battle raged by the fords of the River Isen.

Many horses lay in death or dying, surrounded by their own blood—puddles of which were washed away by the rainwater. The bodies of men and Orc lay thick on the ground. The waters of the river roared, and the current was strong, for even it could feel the hatred that fought at its banks. The servants of Sauron were nearly spent, however—their strength and numbers were waning. The Rohirrim looked to victory.

Victory held a bitter taste, however. As the last Orc met his death, his agonized cry echoed throughout the air. Éomer son of Éomund raised the blade of his sword to the sky and declared victory for the Mark. He looked up, and the raindrops fell to his face and ran down his helm. He watched as the sky's waters washed Gúthwinë's blade clean.

He looked forward once more to see his men looking at him, their own swords half-heartedly raised. Éomer's own heart sank at the sight of them. _So few, so few have survived..._

Then he felt terror rise in him. "Théodred!" he called. "Théodred! Where is the king's son?" He drove his weary stallion forward, and looked about him. "THÉODRED!"

"Éomer..."

Éomer turned. One of his men had dismounted and knelt at the river's bank, with his arms in the dark water, gently raising a limp body...

_No..._

Éomer leapt from his horse and ran over to where the young soldier knelt. There was blood, one with the river's waters, being slowly washed away...and there lay his cousin, Théodred, with arrows pierced through his chest. He took the man in his own arms. The other soldier stepped back, and Éomer was alone with his cousin.

They bore so many titles, them both. Both were called Marshals of the Riddemark. Théodred was heir to Rohan, the king's only son, and Éomer the king's sister-son; both were held in high regard and were given much respect. However, as Éomer looked into his cousin's face, none of that came to his mind.

Théodred was alive but only barely. His glazed eyes wandered, and finally rested on Éomer, who whispered his cousin's name repeatedly as tears streamed down his cheeks and mingled with the rain. Indeed, as Éomer looked upon his dying cousin, he saw not the great Rohirrim warrior—but the man who had been his brother, taught him the art of swordfighting, stood by him...the Théodred who had helped him to live after the tragedy of his parents' deaths...

"Théodred..." whispered Éomer. He reached for the arrows. "You live; we must bear you back to Rohan..."

Théodred clasped his younger cousin's hand. "Let it go, Éomer. There is nothing you can do for me."

Éomer knew not how to respond, but felt grief weighing heavy on his heart as he gently held Théodred's hand.

"Éomer...brother..." his breathing was labored, and when he coughed, blood spewed forth from his spent lungs. "I am sorry...sorry for all the times I...I doubted you."

"There is nothing to be forgiven, Théodred..."

"Yes. There is...too much...too many things left to say...know this, cousin," Théodred gripped Éomer's hand with more urgency and drew his sword to him with his free hand. "Know...know that I love you as a brother...my father, he always told me...no life lives forever, at least no mortal life...so now, I see that mine is spent..."

_No, no, _pleaded Éomer's mind. Yet the words he spoke were different. "The love was mutual," he said in a faltering voice that seemed not his own. Gently, he kissed Théodred's brow. "Go now, be at peace, rest in the great halls of our forefathers."

Théodred attempted to smile, but it turned to a grimace as he was taken by an onslaught of pain. "Éomer..." he said in a desperate voice, his eyes wide. Éomer shook his head in silent denial. Then he felt Théodred's hand go limp in his, and saw that his cousin now stared blank-eyed at the distant heavens.

Éomer shut Théodred's eyes, letting go of his beloved cousin—no, brother—and sending him to his eternal peace. _No life lives forever. _

As the tides of the river slowly ebbed away, Éomer gently bore Théodred's body and lay it on the dry earth...as a distant song of mourning from his past seemed to be raining down in silent whispers:

_Strong and weak exist no more, for in  
__the end all fall;  
__Voice in darkness reaches out to answer  
__Destiny's call..._

* * *

Théodred was laid to rest in a tomb on the outskirts of Edoras, a great tomb in which had been buried many great men of Rohan. Around it white flowers grew in the green grass and swayed slightly in the wind, as though they too sang a sad song. 

Théoden had been present at the ceremony. He had been leaning heavily on his walking stick, yet Éomer found anger in his heart at the sight of his uncle, for the man did not weep, nor speak words of his son...he simply stood silently. Gríma brooded at the king's side. Éomer was furious as Gríma's eyes wandered in boredom and lay repeatedly to rest on Éowyn. Now, at 24, his sister was a woman grown, with shining eyes and hair like a river of gold...

Night fell over Edoras. Éomer retired to the Golden Hall, and the events of the days passed turned over in his mind, giving him dark thoughts. However, as he made his way to his chambers, he was detained.

"My lord Éomer," came a voice. Éomer turned wearily to see Háma standing nearby. They were in one of the side halls, for they both had not desired to be in the king's presence.

Éomer grumbled something to himself about letting a sorrowful man grieve in peace.

"Éomer, this is urgent."

Seeing no other way out, Éomer turned to Háma, and felt slightly sorry for thinking ill of him. Háma's face was drawn and his eyes red...he, too, like other warriors and members of the guard, had borne great love for Théodred. Éomer spoke kindly to his friend.

"What is it, Háma?"

"We have received important news that will concern and grieve you. There has been an Orc descent into Emyn Muil."

Éomer felt his heart go numb. "What?"

Háma showed forth an Orc's helm. On it was a white hand, the symbol of Saruman the traitor. "There were men at camp there, who were slain...something must be done. This party will move forward, destroying, and leave naught in its wake..."

"But for the shadows of the dead," said Éomer quietly. He looked outside. The night was yet young. "These same helms saw I at the Fords of Isen...these Orcs are not from Mordor. And now they carry their ruin to our lands, bearing a white hand with which they plan to smite us all. Can I make this decision? Can I alone lead our men against Mordor and Isengard? No. We must bring this to the king."

"My lord, 'tis not wise..."

"NOW!" Éomer suddenly felt anger in his heart. Why did Háma go to him, and not Théoden? It was evident, of course. The king would do nothing. The king would sit back and watch his people fall to ruin, whilst a traitor breathed deceit into his ears. And now Théodred was gone. Who would they turn to?

_It is not my duty to do the tasks of another, of the man who should be our leader rather than our burden..._

Sauron was taking power. The Ring had been found, and Middle-Earth was beginning to see old fears renewed as the doom of the Third Age began. Rohan could not stand strong against both Sauron and Saruman without leadership.

Háma followed Éomer hastily into the throne room. Éomer held the helm so tightly that his knuckles were white, and trembled from his fury. He saw Wormtongue at Théoden's side. Across the room was Éowyn, despondently spooning broth into a bowl for the king. _The traitorous wretch summons her here, _thought Éomer of Gríma Wormtongue. _He brings her and watches her with desire in his black eyes and in his mind. I will not have it...not for any woman of Rohan, my sister greatest in my heart among them. _

"Your Majesty," Éomer said, striding up until he stood at the steps leading up to the throne. "I bring you ill tidings."

Théoden held his head in his hand, and laboriously turned and gazed at his nephew. "Why do you burden me with more of this? Is the death of my son not enough?" he said in a weary voice.

"Things should turn more ill if you turn blind to the deaths of your people!" said Éomer, his own voice rising to almost a yell. He thrust the helm at the king's feet. "There you have it, Uncle," he said. "The helm of them who slew your son and heir. And now, who descend to Emyn Muil and take the lives of your people! Some new foe, large and ruthless as the Orc yet cunning and quick as the Goblins, with thick armor and broad shields, who come to us from none other than Isengard. They bear the white hand, do you see? The mark of Saruman. There will be no more peace between us and the white wizard." His gaze bore into Théoden's withered form; the king seemed to have not even flinched at this news.

Gríma crept forth from the shadows. "What cruel mockery is this?" he asked in a deceptively calm voice. "You dare spew lies about one of your king's greatest allies, and accuse him of the unspeakable?"

"It is his treachery that is unspeakable," replied Éomer, wishing for nothing more than to take Gúthwinë and remove Wormtongue's despicable head from his shoulders. "And who are you to reprimand me? I address the king, not his pawn." He saw a flash of hatred in the man's eyes. He ignored it, and turned again to Théoden.

"Uncle," Éomer said, softening the tone of his voice. _Let him hear me as once he did. Let me know that my uncle, who has been like a father to me, is still in there somewhere. _"Something must be done about this. Simply give the command, and I will lead a host against them to obliterate this threat before it can destroy the lives of those whom you have vowed to protect. I will do anything you ask of me."

Gríma turned in an almost snakelike manner and looked deep into Théoden's eyes, leaning in close. "'Tis folly, Your Majesty!" he hissed. "Tell me that you would not send forth the army again on a foolish youth's notions...especially since last time he led them, it ended in such tragedy and grief..." he stroked the chair and laid one pale hand on Théoden's wrist. "You will not issue this command. Please, assure me, for I have only the best interests of Rohan at heart."

"Leave him, scum!" cried Éomer, rushing forward. Háma and Éowyn were quickly at his side and restrained him. "Leave him alone! Deceiver! Traitor!" He fought against the hold on his arms, but it was fruitless. All he could do was glare in loathing.

Wormtongue simply gazed at Éomer with contempt. Théoden's eyes looked distant as he turned and peered at his advisor. "Of course. I will not allow this."

_His voice is not his own, _Éomer realized. _It sounds his, but it comes from somewhere else. What dark magic has been performed here?_ "You cannot mean that," he said icily. "These are your people! You are their king, you took an oath to rule and protect them, yet you would let them perish like animals in mindless slaughter?" Théoden simply sat silently, and Wormtongue's face nearly glowed in triumph. Éomer could control his anger no longer. "YOU ARE THEIR KING!" he yelled. "YOU ARE THEIR KING AND YOU DO NOTHING!"

"You heard the command," said Théoden weakly. "I will say no more."

"Éomer..." said Háma, gently trying to lead him out. Éomer pushed him aside and wrenched his arm from his sister's grasp. But he did nothing else. He simply looked at the king, at the advisor, with bile rising in his throat in disgust. His eyes met with Gríma's.

"The Lord of the Mark has spoken," said Wormtongue decisively.

Éomer said nothing but shook his head, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists. He looked at the helm that still lay at Théoden's feet. Then he turned and stalked out. He heard movements behind him; the king was being ushered to his room to rest for the night.

"This will not be the final word," he said to himself.

"Éomer, please, our uncle is not well," said Éowyn as she went after her brother.

Éomer stopped, and turned to her. His fury had turned to a strange despair. He did not speak harshly to her, for she was at fault for none of this. "The blood of kings is weakened," he said. "Gondor has no true leader...and now, neither does Rohan. The world of men will fall, Éowyn. It will perish at the hands of traitors and fools."

"No," she said softly, with an odd glimmer in her eye. "It would sooner fall at the hands of those who obey the commands of traitors and fools. A cautious man will tirelessly obey the will of his master, even when his heart tells him otherwise, and therefore live a long life in neglect of what life should truly be...but a brave man, a wise man, will do what he does for others without hesitation to consider a weaker man's words. A true warrior does what is right, even in the face of imprisonment and exile and death. Which are you, brother? A cautious man, or a man of Rohan?"

They shared a meaningful stare. There was undeniable truth in Éowyn's words, and Éomer felt this wisdom reaching his heart. Without saying anything else, his sister left him, the sound of her footsteps echoing back through the halls.

Éomer looked out the window at the passing moon. It was still early in the night, he supposed. A rough plan was forming in his mind.

The dark of night was treacherous to ride in, but good for slipping out unnoticed...

He felt Gúthwinë's hilt; the sword was still sheathed at his side. He strode through the hall, and watched, concealed in shadows behind a pillar in the throne room, as the king and those who accompanied him passed. Then he slipped into the room.

He opened the doors just barely wide enough to make it out.

"The hour is very late, my lord Éomer," said a guard at the door, stepping over slightly to block his lord's exit.

"Are any of the Rohirrim about?"

"Most are in bed, good sir. Barely any are out and about. One was in the armory, I fear he may have fallen asleep there wtih a bit too much wine in his head."

Éomer nodded. "I must go there. It is only fitting for him to be in bed; I will fetch him. Am I allowed passage?"

"Always, of course." The guards stepped aside with a slightly suspicious look and Éomer went out under the moon's stare, and ignored his weariness as he went down to the armory. The guards at their posts there let him pass also.

The man within was a young soldier named Tirence, who had fallen asleep against a far wall. Éomer shook him awake.

When Tirence awoke and saw Éomer, he groggily stood and gave a lazy salute. "What would you have of me, my lord?"

"We have to go somewhere, Tirence. You, me, and as many others as we can get. We are to pursue a party of those creatures who killed Théodred."

"Are these the king's orders?"

"These are the orders I am telling you, regardless of whom they come from." Then, as Éomer saw the look in his fellow soldier's eyes, he could not help but feel that the man deserved to know the truth. "Actually," he said quietly. "These are the opposite of the king's orders. But Orcs bearing the White Hand have descended into Emyn Muil, and the king would have us do nothing until they are at our gates, slaughtering our people. I need you help me rouse the others. We know where they abide. We must make short work of it. Will you assist?"

Tirence looked at the determined expression on Éomer's faceand was filled with determination of his own. "I will."

* * *

Midnight had come by the time Éomer and Tirence had, as Éomer pretended to be seeing Tirence home, visited the homes of the other Rohirrim. It was a long and tiring, and the houses were far, but as men were roused they also went in turn and found others. Éomer instructed them to find discreet ways and meet outside the city gates. Most men brought their own horses, and the rest managed to sneak some out of the stables. Finally, the host was assembled. Their number was a vast one hundred and five. Éomer felt a surge of pride. In the time frame in which he himself had only managed to get about fifteen men, the others had followed his lead. This party was far larger than he had dared to hope. It proved that the Rohirrim were truly faithful to the people of Rohan, and would defy the king for the good for the good of those they were meant to protect. It had taken long, though, and Éomer had been getting a bit skittish. They had to leave as soon as possible. 

They had been forced to knock those guards at the front that would not cooperate unconscious. Three had joined the cause. Éomer looked out over his men, and the restless horses. He had explained to them why he was doing this...they had a right to know the entire story, after all, and he could only hope that none would turn away and go to the king, for he would have had to knock that man unconscious as well. Éomer was too determined at this point to be hindered. But to his surprise, none had fled. They all saw the reasons clearly enough.

"You will be called traitors, turncloaks," he said. "It is too late to turn back now."

One of the men had stepped forward. "We took an oath to serve the people of Rohan," he said, pride ringing in his voice. "No matter what words are uttered about us, we are fulfilling that oath now, and know it. None can truly fault us for it." The others murmured their agreement, and Éomer could see the light of justice gleaming in their eyes.

And, indeed, none could fault the Rohirrim, for there are times when the only truly path in life is that which follows the desires of one's own heart...especially when it is for the good of others.

At Éomer's call, the riders of Rohan rode forward, images in their minds of death and glory. The moon and stars lit their paths, and they donned their brightly glinting armor and long, pointed spears. They were the Rohirrim, and were riding out for the good of Rohan, living for Rohan as Théodred never again would...none, not fool nor traitor nor liar, could make them do otherwise...

* * *

**_Ok! There's chapter 4. Hope it was decent._**

**_Coming Soon: Éomer overtakes the Orcs in Emyn Muil. Upon his return, in which he meets Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, he is imprisoned for one day in which he suffers mentally (angst) and physically (with thirst and hunger and maltreatment). Wormtongue's corruption of Théoden and desire for Éowyn increase, and there is nothing he can do, for he has been deemed a traitor in his own household..._**

**_Please R & R!_**


	5. Chapter 5: Cast Into Shadows

_**Thanks for the reviews! Here is Chapter 5. **_

_**Eokat: Hmm, I had looked at the appendices. I was right in that he was imprisoned for one full day but you were correct in saying that he was imprisoned for two nights. He was imprisoned on the night of the 30th upon his return, after meeting Aragorn and such, and Gandalf healed Théoden on the 2nd, so he was in the dungeons for the entire day of the 1rst and the night of the 30th and 1rst. **_

**_Sorry, but Éomer's imprisonment had to be pushed back to the next chapter (again!). It would have just made this chapter WAY too long. _**

**_Disclaimer: The final book of the LOTR trilogy, ROTK, was copyrighted in 1965 by J.R.R. Tolkien. The rest were copyrighted before that and by the same guy. It would be dumb to say I own it; although I was alive in 1965 (for I am Aragorn) I was then living in hiding and presumed to be "presumed dead;" instead this "presumed" presumption wasn't disproved to not be incorrect._**

Chapter 5: Cast Into Shadows

_3019 T.A., the plains of the Riddermark _

They rode steadily throughout the few hours remaining in the night, in utter silence, for they had to be purposeful; stalling would get them caught. The stars and moon served as a map to guide them during that period of darkness. Éomer rode at the head, his blood rushing from the sheer adrenaline rush of justified defiance. The young sun was barely touching the distant mountaintops as the plains of the Riddermark stretched out before the Riders of Rohan.

Éomer led his host in a descend into the plains and they rode following the tracks they had found until noon. Little could be seen for mileseven in the peak of the day's light. The trail was somewhat fresh, but the gently wind for an entire night swayed the blades of fading grass and made even large groups of footprints hard to locate, on top of the fact that the riders were weary from getting little rest and riding from midnight until midday of the 28th of February.

Finally, after hearing several complaints, Éomer granted the men and their mounts a rest. As they settled on the side of a broad hillock, Kaeril, an energetic young soldier and skilled fighter, approached Éomer.

"My lord?"

Éomer turned. He had been attending to his own stallion. "Yes, Kaeril?"

"I was wondering if it would be possible for you to send me out as a scout. I am not tired, and my horse is strong. He will be able to resume the ride shortly. Also, if the Orcs see us riding forth as a host they have time to prepare themselves to stand against us and we will have no element of surprise."

Éomer nodded. He had indeed been thinking of sending a scout, but had not yet had a chance to voice it. He was also worried about the peril. If one of the Rohirrim were to fall into the enemy's hands, Éomer would never forgive himself. Was he not the one who had gotten them all into this?

"It is a wise idea, Kaeril," he said. "But none of you would be here, in this danger, if I had not brought you. For me this battle is as much to avenge my cousin as it is to save our people. Therefore, I shall be the one to ride out."

Kaeril did not know how to respond, and simply stood there, staring. "But, my lord, we need your leadership..."

"All you need is each other." Éomer put a comforting hand on the younger man's shoulder for a moment, then made his way to the top of the hillock (a summit which proved to be quite blunt) to address the men.

When Éomer called out to them, the conversation amongst the men died down to a few misplaced whispers and eventually silence. Many eyes turned to look his way. Even the horses ceased to cause any commotion, for the atmosphere around the Rohirrim of one that was dead serious.

"Men of Rohan," Éomer said, raising his voice so that it rang clear and could be easily heard by all one hundred five soldiers before him. "To avoid stumbling across our enemies in such great numbers, I shall ride out to see if I can notify you as to their whereabouts. I should return by nightfall."

Kaeril, as well as two other men named Rieiaur and Éothaincame forth and knelt before Éomer.

"You said we needed each other," said Kaeril softly. "You need others as well, my lord Éomer. At least let us four ride with you. As four, we will remain inconspicuous, but should things turn ill there will be at least some support."

Éothain, a man three years Éomer's senior, raised his head and looked Éomer in the eyes. Under one arm he held his helm and at his waist had his sword sheathed, and his spear was raised tall in his hands. "We pledge to serve you, Éomer. Do not turn us away."

Éomer could not help feeling the rise of a strange emotion that seemed to be reminiscent of the fantasies of his childhood. To have others before him, swearing him fealty...it made him feel like somebody of worth.

With a slight smile, Éomer looked out at the rest of the riders. No longer were they simply fellow riders. They were more; they were his brothers, his kinsmen, who would ride with him to any fate. And he would be at their side through any danger as well.

* * *

So it was that Éomer set out across the plains, with three sets of hoof beats thundering behind him. He could hear the stallion's breathing growing slightly labored but the creature showed no signs of even slowing. Éomer's heart was hopeful, and as he made light conversation with Kaeril, Éothain, and Rieiaur, the dangers ahead seemed to be less of a threat, although there was still amount of peril lingering in the air. 

Yet by evening Éomer was starting to worry. Why had they not yet found anything? The path was clearer as they progressed but they could not see definite signs. He could see the borders of the forsaken Fangorn Forest, and he would not dare lead his men there. The four riders were at that point coming up the side of a somewhat steep hill so that all Éomer could see were the dark treetops, cast with shadows amidst gnarled branches. The hill sloped into a valley and they had nearly reached its top.

Then Éomer heard something and called his men to an abrupt halt. They yanked back on their horses' bridles, gaining irritated neighs, but the beasts stopped the movement of their hooves save for the occasional stamp.

It was the sound of a large group, seemingly on foot. Grunts and growls indicated that the creatures were less than human. Éomer's heart beat faster, and he motioned for the horses to be moved back. The men obeyed and all four backed up the animals until they were well clear of the hill's summit.

Éomer dismounted and laid his spear on the ground a few feet away from his stallion. Kaeril, Éothain and Rieiar followed his lead and did the same. Then they went and stood behind him with questioning yet determined looks in their eyes.

Éomer crept up to the top of the hill and laid himself upon the grass so that only his eyes peaked up and gazed into the valley below. His three companions were soon at his side. Then, peering forward, Éomer gained vindictive joy, for he saw before him a great host of Orc; some also ran with them who were not of Mordor. They held the same grotesque characteristics of the Orc but were greater in stature and also bore traces of Goblin features. All were armed, and some near the front seemed to be carrying some things on their backs, but at this distance Éomer could not make out what it was.

"Bile rises in my throat simply at the sight of them," whispered Éothain. "Even the earth quakes beneath their foul steps. Our spears and sword will gladly spill such dark blood."

Some rebukes came to Éomer's mind for such bloodthirstiness, but he said nothing. He too would rather see these horrid creatures dead than alive.

The four men lay on that hilltops for quite some time, watching as their foes arrived at the borders of Fangorn and advanced no more.

"They must be stopping for a rest," said Rieiaur, shifting his weight on the uncomfortable ground.

Éomer nodded. "An opportunity," he whispered, more to himself than to the others.

As they started to head back, Éomer couldn't help but notice the sparkle of excitement in Kaeril's eyes. "Does the thought of battle excite you, Kaeril?"

"When it is against the servants of Mordor, yes, my lord."

Éomer sighed. "Kaeril, all that comes with war is loss."

Kaeril drew his horse around until it stood before Éomer's. "I know," he said. "I know that it is nothing but death, but it is necessary. For freedom for the people. We will all die, and none of us will choose how. But I would rather die with a sword in hand, fighting for what I believe in, than a feeble old man safe in his bed. That's why I became a soldier. Is it not the same for you?"

Éomer felt a smile upon his lips. "That's why we become soldiers," he agreed.

* * *

It took about two hours to ride back to where the other Rohirrim were resting with anxious expressions, as they busied themselves with minor tasks and restored their strength. Most had taken some hours of sleep. Éomer knew that his horse and those belonging to Kaeril, Rieiaur and Éothain were exhausted and had been pushed to their limits. The animals had been panting and not nearly achieving their full speed on the return journey. 

Éomer swung down from his stallion and fed the creature some oats as he thanked him for his service. Then he turned the horse over to a soldier who offered to tend to its needs.

All were looking at the small party expectantly. Éomer was weary, but the thought of riding with the Rohirrim to battle beneath the rising sun invigorated him.

"They rest outside of the Fangorn Forest," he said as loud as possible. "Two hours more of rest, give or take, for me and your three other faithful brothers to recooperate. Then, we ride, Sons of Eorl! For wrath and ruin, and the coming of the sun. We bring down our enemy at dawn!"

By the end of the speech, Éomer's voice had risen to a yell, and the others cried out in response, raising their spears and swords with cries of "Eorlingas!" and "For the Mark!"

Once the ferver had died down, the men waited with mixed feelings of anticipation, dread, joy and sorrow, and Éomer's own feelings of such were most prominent among them. Yet he welcomed the harbor of sleep. After two hours of dreamless sleep, he was roused, and stood groggily and reluctantly. Éothain stood before him.

"The sun rises in about two and a half hours," Éothain said.

Éomer clenched his fists in determination. "And a red sun will it be."

* * *

The Rohirrim assembled their ranks atop the very hill that Éomer had used as a scouting position the night before. The enemy was vulnerable; the remains of their fire was flickering out and some were asleep whilst others polished weapons. There was no conversation among these monsters...and none had their scimitars and knives at ready. 

The sky was barely beginning to lighten. Night was still clinging to its final moments, but the sun was beginning to push through and would soon come into view in the distance.

Éomer needed only a few yells to rouse the men as he held Gúthwinë up for all to behold. "FOR THE MARK!" he called. "FORTH, SONS OF EORL!"

And with war cries roaring forth from their mouths, the Rohirrim charged, and the galloping hooves of the hundred-odd horses flattened the yellowing grass. As Éomer pointed his mighty sword forward and imagined it piercing the black throats of the Orcs and their companions, the first rays of light came up from the east.

The Orcs never had time to organize. Bewildered and disconcerted, they tripped over one another trying to grab weapons, but even armed it was impossible for them to beat a force more than twice the size of their own that rode on horseback.

Suddenly, the charge was over, and the battle began. The first regiments of the Rohirrim had reached their enemies. Some bore bows and arrows, which sang in the morning as the arrows whistled through the air; others thrust forward spears while yet others slashed with swords. The frenzy of the battle of overwhelming—the Orcs were severely outnumbered, disorganized, and fought chaotically against foes that they could not by any means defeat.

Yet they did manage to unhorse severalmen. While the battle was still raging, it was impossible for Éomer and the others to see if any of their comrades had fallen...but the disorder would be over soon enough.

Just like at the Fords of Isen, Éomer looked around and felt his sword tensing in his hand; there was nothing to attack. Everywhere he looked he saw only the other Rohirrim. Some yards to his left he heard the death cry of one final Orc, a hoarse scream ripped from its throat as a spear went through his chest and came out protruding from his back and covered in blood. But there were no more.

"HOLD!" yelled Éomer. The rest of his men stopped, and looked around. All that remained were foul and bloody carcasses of the Orcs. The stench was horrible, and more notable now that the Rohirrim had no battle left to fight.

Éomer looked to the sun, which was now shining in the morning sky. _The sun is red...a sun of blood has risen. _

"Search for any of our wounded!" he called out. The men began to dismount, and their horses fidgeted uncomfortably amongst the corpses. Éomer's eyes scanned over the dead. Many of the Orcs' eyes, open and glassy, stared up into his, and Éomer found that though his task was accomplished, he felt no sense of pride. _All that comes with war is loss. _The Orcs had been Elves once...for them to have become this now, worthless, evil scum that angered the very earth, that was a terrible, terrible loss.

"Lord Éomer! Here, please!"

Éomer did not know who was calling to him, but went out to where most of the men were standing, on the outskirts of the battleground, where bodies were much fewer.

Éothain, a bit flustered but not seriously wounded, led Éomer to where several soldiers were standing in a semicircle. "Fifteen dead," he said grievously. "Twelve wounded, and fifteen dead."

As Éomer made his way over to where the bodies obviously were, he felt his heart once again sink with grief. Fifteen dead..._I would rather die with a sword in hand, fighting for what I believe in, than a feeble old man safe in his bed. _Young Kaeril was among the dead and Éomer felt a surge of guilt, though at what he was unsure. An elder soldier named Gárulf was among them as well, but mostly the dead consisted of younger soldiers, who were often more rash and thought themselves invincible. Éomer sighed. Two were no older than seventeen. To have lived so little...

Éomer said a silent prayer to whatever gods would hear. "We must burn the carcasses of our enemies," he said. "And we cannot burden ourselves with these dead either."

Éothain looked to him. "What are we to do then with our own dead? Surely we cannot simple burn them unceremoniously with the rest!"

Éomer shook his head and looked down at the lifeless bodies. "No. We will bury them. We have time, before returning to Edoras. Let us move the bodies of our kinsmen aside and prepare a mound for the funeral. I will need men to do this, as well as some to tend to the wounded. Others, with me, will prepare a fire to burn the Orcs. Let us make haste."

The early sky was still painted with the red of the blooded sun as Éomer's orders were carried out.

* * *

The stench from the burning Orc bodies was strong even from afar. The ceremony for the fifteen dead of the Rohirrimhad been brief, but solemn, and the voices of the Riders of Rohan had lifted as they sang praises for the fallen. 

Now, however, both were done, and it was high afternoon. The Rohirrim were riding in silence towards Edoras. None looked forward to the confrontation with the king after going out against his orders, and brooding thoughts in their minds silenced normally conversational tongues. The hoof beats of the horses were rapid, for haste was necessary nonetheless.

They were descending the downward slope of one hill when a call from the rear of the host broke the quiet.

"_What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?" _

The Rohirrim had practiced before for such intrusions. Without so much as a word to one another, they halted their horses and turned, riding towards three figures that they had nearly passed over. Éomer irritably wondered how he had passed them over; they would have needed to be camouflaged behind the rock they had emerged from. Could they be Orcs? Éomer quickly dismissed that silly notion.

As they made a formation around the strangers, the Rohirrim drew forth their weapons and pointed both spears and arrows. Éomer rode to the front.

Before him was an odd ensemble. The nearest to him was a man, tall and limber, with lank, dark hair and a gray cloak about his shoulders. There was something intriguing about his gray-green eyes. _There is something strange about this one. _Éomer rested the point of his spear before the man's chest, noting that the man before him did not so much as flinch. His companions were of two different races. One was obviously an elf, who was fair of face, with golden hair and pointed ears, and there was an ornately carved longbow in one hand and an arrow in the other, which he had drawn from a slender quiver upon his back. The other was very small and stout, with a dark beard and eyes that were shadowed by a square helm. A dwarf, obviously. In his hand he held a long axe which was planted on the ground. What business did an elf, a man, and a dwarf have in the Riddermark?

They most likely spoke the Common Tongue. Éomer could speak it fluently, and so shifted to that language rather than the native language of Rohan, which was different from that of their kin in the north.

"Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?"

The man looked up and answered without hesitation. "I am called Strider. I came out of the North. I am hunting Orcs."

These three did not seem to pose immediate threat, but Éomer was wary. He dismounted and handed his spear to Éothain, who came up beside him and dismounted as well. Éomer then stood before the man's face. Surely, this was no Strider. It was a false name. He looked the man up and down.

"At first I thought you yourselves were Orcs," Éomer confessed, before going on to question them. How could they go about pursuing swift, armored Orcs on foot with such scant weapons and so few in number? And how had they hidden from the sight of the Rohirrim? Éomer then noticed Elven brooches clasping their cloaks. "Are you elvish folk?"

Strider shook his head. "No. One only of us is an Elf, Legolas from the Woodland Realm in distant Mirkwood. But we have passed through Lothlórien, and the gifts and favor of the Lady go with us."

Then there was a lady of the Golden Wood. "Few escape her nets, they say. If you have her favor, then you also are net-weavers and sorcerers, maybe." Éomer turned to the elf, Legolas, and the dwarf. "Why do you not speak, silent ones?"

The dwarf drew himself up to his full stature, and his eyes were full of anger as they peered out from under the helm. "Give me your name, horse-master, and I will give you mine, and more besides."

Éomer introduced himself curtly as Éomer son of Éomund, Third Mashal of Riddermark. The dwarf looked up and glared at him straight in the eye.

"Then Éomer, son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark, let Gimli the Dwarf Glóin's son warn you against foolish words. You speak evil of that which is fair beyond the reach of your thought, and only little wit can excuse you."

There was slight commotion among the Rohirrim, and they rode inward, inclosing the three wanderers and advancing their spears. Éomer himself felt fury rise in his heart at such indignation. "I would cut off your head, Master Dwarf," he said contemptuously. "If it stood but a little higher from the ground."

Legolas took action so quickly that Éomer's heart skipped a beat. The elf's hands moved like lightning as he bent his bow and fit an arrow to the spring, his silver eyes flashing. "He stands not alone. You would die before your stroke fell."

Éomer knew that the Rohirrim were ready to drive their spears through Legolas' chest. The man Strider went between the two, and raised his hands, calling for peace. He turned to Éomer and assured him that they meant no evil to Rohan. "Will you not hear our tale before you strike?"

Éomer agreed, but knew that there was something he must know first. "First tell me your right name." Strider countered the question with another.

"First tell me whom you serve. Are you friend or foe of Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor?"

"I serve only the Lord of the Mark, Théoden King son of Thengel." Éomer did not care to include that they were out here against the king's orders. Saying the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. "We do not serve the Power of the Black Land far away, but neither re we yet at open war with him; and if you are fleeing from him, then you had best leave this land." The land was, indeed, though it hurt Éomer to admit it, forsaken. He went on to tell Strider about how danger dwelt on the borders of Rohan and how they desired nothing but freedom and the life that the Riddermark had once held. Éomer felt a strange pang of guilt. Before, strangers had been welcomed kindly in Rohan, but now he had advanced on these three as though they were enemies.

_I am only being cautious. Dark things dwell here, and I must not be quick to trust. _He looked Strider in the eyes again.

"Come!" Éomer said. "Who are you? Whom do _you _serve? At whose command do you hunt Orcs in our land?"

An odd look came into Strider's eyes. "I serve no man, but the servants of Sauron I pursue into whatever land they may go." Éomer watched as Strider's hand moved towards his waist and the sword that must have been concealed beneath the cloak. He tensed his grip on Gúthwinë. "There are few among mortal Men who know more of Orcs; and I do not hunt them in this fashion out of choice. The Orcs whom we pursued took captive two of my friends." _More strange folk, perhaps? _thought Éomer. "In such need a man that has no horse will go on foot, and he will not ask for leave to follow the trail. Nor will he count the heads of the enemy save with a sword. I am not weaponless."

Éomer wondered if this Strider would draw. He took a cautious step back. Then, Strider threw his cloak back, and drew a longsword from the sheath at his side that made barely any sound as it swept into the air. Sunlight glistened brightly in the blade and hilt, and Éomer felt recognition...he had seen this sword before. "Elendil!" cried Strider. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan, the heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor. Here is the Sword that was Broken and is forged again! Will you aid me or thwart me? Choose swiftly."

There was utter silence among the Rohirrim. Éomer felt his heart beat quickly in wonder...a legend, a myth, the heir of Isildur...in these days dreams and legends seemed to spring to life from the very grass. He looked into Aragorn's eyes. _They are the eyes of a king, fair, yet filled with desire for justice. _The crown would fit this one well.

"Tell me, lord," Éomer said, his voice sounding weaker and less authoritative. This man's power far outdid his own. "What brings you here?" Briefly, Éomer remembered the latest tidings that Rohan had heard of Gondor, that Boromir, son of the Steward, whom he had met several times on occasion, had long been gone seeking an answer to questions of darkness. He asked Aragorn what he knew of this, but the man only answered that they would discuss such things at a later time.

"You heard that we are pursuing an orc-host that carried off our friends. What can you tell us?" Aragorn looked at Éomer expectantly.

Éomer felt guilty again. Could they have slain Aragorn's friends? No, they had seen only Orcs! "That you need not pursue them further," he answered quietly. "The Orcs are destroyed."

"And our friends?"

"We found none but Orcs."

Hope seemed to extinguish in Aragorn's eyes. "Did you search the slain? Were there no bodies other than those of orc-kind?" He motion with his hands. "They would be small, only children to your eyes, unshod but clad in grey."

Éomer tried to imagine what Aragorn could possibly be talking about. Dwarves? "There were no dwarves nor children." He told of the pile of carcasses, whose ashes still burned and smoked.

Gimli spoke again for the first time. "We do not speak of dwarves or children. Our friends were hobbits."

_What? _Éomer was growing more perplexed by the moment. "Hobbits? And what may they be? It is a strange name."

Gimli's eyes were downcast as he spoke and Éomer felt the sadness that these three felt suddenly in his own heart. "A strange name for a strange folk," the dwarf said. "But these were very dear to us. It seems that you have heard in Rohan of the words that troubled Minas Tirith. They spoke of the Halfling. These hobbits are Halflings."

Éomer felt ashamed when Éothain barked out a laugh.

"Halflings!" Éothain said, laughing. "Halflings! But they are only a little people in old songs and children's tales out of the North. Do we walk in legends or on the green earth in the daylight?" The joyous look on his face was wiped off when Éomer glared at his fellow rider sternly.

A mysterious look grew in Aragorn's eyes. "A man may do both," he said.

Obviously Éothain had not taken the meaning of Éomer's look. He turned to his leader. "Time is pressing. We must hasten south, lord. Let us leave these wild folk to their fancies. Or let us bind them and take them to the king."

_A prize for having disobeyed his word? I think not. _Éomer addressed Éothain in the tongue of Rohan. "Peace, Éothain!" he said. "Leave me a while. Tell the _éored _to assemble on the path, and make ready to ride."

Éomer waited until the grumbling Éothain had gone off and begun to lead the host away before speaking to Aragorn again. "All that you say is strange, Aragorn. Yet you speak the truth. The Men of the Mark do not lie and therefore are not easily deceived. But you have not told all." Éomer wanted the entire truth behind this strange story. "Will you not now speak more fully of your errand, so that I may judge what to do?"

Aragorn told his tale. They had set out from Rivendell, in a company including Boromir of Gondor. He was very vague about what business this company had. "Gandalf the Grey was out leader."

Gandalf. Éomer remembered the old wizard, Gandalf Greyhame, bent and cloaked with a great pointed hat. He remembered Gandalf coming to Edoras, and warning the king against Saruman the traitor, and had been angry when Théoden had refused to listen and sent the wizard away. Then Gandalf had taken Shadowfax, a great but wild stallion that had the lineage of chief of the _Mearas. _Shadowfax had been set aside exclusively for Théoden; though the king never was able to ride him. The horse had returned, but even more wild than when he had left. Éomer voiced all these thoughts and let Aragorn make what he would of them.

Aragorn looked away with grief in his expression. "Gandalf will ride no longer. He fell into darkness in the Mines of Moria."

Perhaps Éomer should have held the same feelings for Gandalf as his uncle had, but his uncle had grown to be a fool, and knew that it was not true. He felt suddenly grievous. Aragorn agreed that it was the most grievous tidings the land had ever known. The heir of Isildur proceeded to reveal even more ill news—that Boromir had been slain by the Orcs that they hunted.

Éomer remembered having long conversations with Boromir. He had been a friend, very spirited and hopeful, constantly giving that hope to others, and they had shared meat and mead under the roof of the Golden Hall. "When did he fall?"

"It is now the fourth day since he was slain. And since the evening of that dya we have journeyed from the shadow of Tol Brandir."

So far? "On foot?" Éomer asked.

"Yes, even as you see us."

"Then Wingfoot I name you. Hardy is the race of Elendil!" Éomer then thought of what was to be done. A few days before sneaking out of Edoras he had cleared lands under his charge of innocents in case ill things should occur, and wondered what Aragorn would advise him to do next. "But now, lord, what would you have me do? The East-mark is my charge, the ward of the Third Marshal, and I have removed all our herds and herdfolk, withdrawing them beyond Entwash, and leaving none here but guards and swift scouts.

Gimli looked up at him. "Then you do not pay tribute to Sauron?"

"We do not and we never have." Anger was in Éomer's mind. He told Aragorn of the trials Rohan had faced, in which several Orc attacks had been sent forth into the Mark by Sauron and Saruman. "Do I hope in vain that you have been sent to me for a help in doubt and need."

Aragorn paused for a brief moment before answering. "I will come when I may."

"Come now! I fear that it may go ill for us." Éomer sighed. They had kept no secrets from, and neither must he. He told them of his going out against the king's orders and of the events that followed. Then he turned to Legolas and Gimli. "Will you not come? There are spare horses as you see. There is word for the Sword to do. Yes, and we could find a use for Gimli's axe and the bow of Legolas, if they will pardon my rash words concerning the Lady of the Wood. I spoke only as do all men in my land, and I would gladly learn better."

Aragorn sighed. "I cannot desert my friends while hope remains."

"Hope does not remain."

"Yet my friends are not behind. We found a clear token not far from the East wall that one at least of them was still alive there."

"Then what do you think has become of them?"

"I do not know. Can you swear that none escaped your net?"

"I would swear that none escaped after we sighted them."

Aragorn motioned to his cloak. "Our friends were attired even as we are, and you passed us by under the full light of day."

Éomer felt slightly embarrassed. "I had forgotten that. How shall a man judge what to do in such times?"

"As he ever has judged. Good and ill has not changed since yesteryear."

"True indeed."

After a few more words concerning such matters, Aragorn revealed that he had served in disguise in Rohan, and Éomer found himself wondering just how old this man was, for he still had somewhat a look of youth, but the blood of Númenor gave forth long life, and he may not be as he appeared.

Aragorn gave Éomer a look of understanding and Éomer felt a strange hope within him. "Come now, son of Éomund, the choice must be made at last. Aid us, or at the worst let us go free. Or seek to carry out your law."

Éomer thought for a moment. "We both have need of haste. You may go; and what is more, I will lend you horses. This only I ask: when your quest is achieved, or is proved vain return to the high house in Edoras where Théoden now sits. Thus you shall prove to him that I have not misjudged. In this I place myself, and maybe my very life, in the keeping of your good faith. Do not fail."

Éomer did not doubt for a moment that this man would do so. Aragorn's eyes were determined and he responded, "I will not."

* * *

The men were uncomfortable with giving Hasufel and Arod, two spare horses that had belonged to Gárulf and Kaeril. Gimli was not given a horse but rather rode beside Legolas atop Arod. The elf removed the horse's saddle and bridle, and the normally feisty horse was tamed at his gentle touch. _Would it be that I had the gift with horses that these Elven folk hold, _thought Éomer. 

"Farewell, and may you find what you seek!" he cried as the Three Hunters began to ride away. "Return with what speed you may, and let our swords hereafter shine together!"

"I will come," Aragorn replied.

"And I will come, too," Gimli said, looking uneasy atop the horse. "The matter of the Lady Galadriel lies till between us. I have yet to teach you gentle speech."

Éomer found himself smiling. In so little time, these three had become friends to him. "We shall see. So many strange things have chanced that to learn the praise of a fair lady under the loving strokes of a Dwarf's axe will seem no great wonder. Farewell!"

And so they parted, and as the sun set, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli rode into the distance, their grey cloaks flowing out behind them, ever mysterious in their journeys as they went forth to serve a cause greater than Éomer could have imagined...for indeed, never once had they directly mentioned the Fellowship of the Ring and its purpose.

* * *

It was nightfall when the weary Rohirrim at last passed through the gates of Edoras, and were greeted by the stares of the people, some curious, some angry, some betrayed, and some ever hopeful and grateful. Éomer instructed that the rest of the host be returned to their homes. 

"This is my battle," he said. "It was my idea and I will resolve it."

The king awaited him in the throne room, with Gríma at his side. There was more devious glee in Wormtongue's eyes than usual, and he looked at Éomer with a smile on his face as he whispered something in Théoden's ear. Éowyn was near the throne, and embraced her brother, voicing her concern for him. After greeting her as well, Éomer lightly brushed his sister aside and went before the king.

"You went against my orders," said Théoden, his eyes not even on Éomer.

"I am sorry, uncle," said Éomer courteously. "But it was not in vain. The Orcs have been destroyed, and I have much to tell you besides."

Gríma stood. Even standing, he was hunched and somewhat inhuman, and his pale face was in shadow. "What makes you think the king is interested, son of Éomund?"

Wormtongue began to descend the steps, and each footfall of his echoed in the hall. Éomer felt the presence of men behind him, and saw some of the soldiers who had refused to accompany him advancing on him. He felt suddenly wary and slightly fearful. As he looked at the anger and contempt in Gríma, however, realization came to him.

"You are a pawn of Saruman," Éomer said quietly, his voice seething with fury. "How long since he bought you, Gríma Wormtongue? What is it he promised you?"

Éomer did not miss it when those dark eyes darted in his sister's direction, and then rested once again on him. "You know too much, Éomer son of Éomund," said the sinister voice.

"LEAVE HER!" he yelled. "BY MY OWN HANDS I SWEAR I WILL KILL YOU!"

Suddenly, Éomer felt rough hands grabbing his arms, and struggled against the restraints. One of the guards on him ripped Gúthwinë from its sheath and held the blade against his throat.

"Stop fighting it, lord Éomer," said the man called Derimir as he spit at Éomer's feet. "Or would you like to die by a stroke of your own sword?"

"Éomer!" called Éowyn, rushing forth to help him. "Let him go!"

"Éowyn, no!" Éomer turned and looked at his sister. They shared a brief glance, and defeated she turned away.

Derimir withdrew the sword. One of the men punched Éomer unexpectedly in his stomach, and Éomer doubled over with the breath gone from him. Another came before him and kicked his chest. Éomer felt a sudden burst of pain, and bit his lip to keep from crying out. As another punched his face and warm blood fell into his mouth, he began to get disoriented. Pretty soon his body was wracked in pain, and he could see Éowyn crying beneath swollen eyes as they continued to beat him. His breath was soon coming short and ragged. Yet as Éomer grew weaker, it seemed that the guards hit him harder and would not relent.

_I must be strong,_ he told himself as another fist hit him square in the jaw. All this time, he had not cried out. Nor would he. But there was now not only blood in his mouth, but leaking into his eyes from cuts in his forehead, and as he looked down he could see dark bruises on his arms as his captors ripped the mail from him and left him in nothing but the tunic and trousers he wore underneath.

_Strong and weak exist no more..._

"You are hereby sentenced to imprisonment," said Gríma, holding forth a scroll of parchment.

Éomer looked up. He had fallen to his knees as they beat him, and now they stopped and he looked at the paper before him. "You are not authorized to make such an order." Every word was taxing, and pained him even more.

Wormtongue smiled again. "This order does not come from me; it comes from the king." Éomer looked, and sure enough saw his uncle's signature scrawled at the bottom of the decree in dark ink. "Take him away."

The guards dragged Éomer to his feet. They roughly forced him forward, and with stumbling steps Éomer was led to the darkness of the dungeons. The prisoners already therein, driven mad from the perpetual gloom, laughed at Éomer and threw pieces of filth at him as he passed.

Derimir leaned in close. "See, you've already made friends," he said.

They shoved him into the farthest cell, where no torchlight infiltrated and the ground was covered in dirt. Former prisoners had written incomprehensible things on the stone walls in dried blood. It was there that Éomer's own men, having been jealous of the king's nephew, cast him into the shadows, and as he hit the wall and the world began to turn black, Éomer wondered what would become of Rohan.

_I will not fail, _Aragorn had said. Éomer could only hope it was true and clung to that promise as the blow from having hit a wall when thrown in drove him to unconsciousness.

* * *

_**Fin! Sorry it was so long, I'll try to condense the book parts more. Maybe I should have done it by the movie...but I love the books too much. Tell me if it was too long. If someone fell asleep, then I know something has to be done. **_

_**Coming soon: FINALLY ÉOMER'S IMPRISONMENT. Jeez. Okay, and besides that, the White Wizard comes to the Golden Hall. Will he be able to free Théoden from Saruman's grasp?**_

_**Please R & R!**_


	6. Chapter 6: Falling to Ruin

**_Hullo, the edited version of Chapter 5 has now been posted, yay. Much thanks to Eokat. _**

**_As of now, I only have about 2 regular reviewers. How sad. Oh well! I like my reviewers because they are nice and don't call me a codfish. Don't even think about it, Irish Anor, that OR the munchy bunkin thing. Where the heck did that come from anyway? Sapphire Orb might review sometime...to my dear friend orbi, I say busca busca. _**

_**Disclaimer: MY CLAIM IS DISSED**_

Chapter 6: Falling to Ruin

Éomer found no rest that night. After recovering from unconsciousness, he found reality even worse than the darkness that he had just come out of. The stench of the cell was so unbearable that he wondered when was the last time it had been cleaned out, for when he had cleaned the dungeons in his youth he had never found them in such condition as they now were. Was all of Rohan falling to ruin? Also, Éomer found that he was hungry and parched with thirst. They had eaten very little during the entire orc-hunt and the long rides and exhilarating battles had exhausted him. Yet he could not sleep. His only gladness was in knowing that the other men had not been faulted for his defiance, though they had followed him wholeheartedly.

The cell was cold. Torches lit far walls, but their meager light and warmth were scarcely comforting. Éomer's head was throbbing. Welts and bruises covered his skin and sent pain rushing through his body at the slightest contact with the rough, cold walls, and several had opened to send blood coursing down his skin. His left eye was so swollen that his vision was blurred and it was agonizing to keep it open long. On top of everything, his wrists had been fastened to two steel shackles that were rusting away on one of the walls, and the rotting metal hurt when it dug into the skin on his wrists, and Éomer could feel warm blood trickling down his arms.

_I have committed no crime. _

The other prisoners found nothing more amusing than a Marshal of the Mark being thrown in among them like a low-life criminal, and would not give Éomer a moment without jests and taunts that he tried hard to ignore.

It was impossible to know when the night of the 30th became the morning of the 1st, because of the windowless dark. But eventually the morning came, unbeknownst to Éomer, and it was signified after those long hours by someone entering the cell.

The sounds of movement in other cells suggested that the prisoners were being brought their first meal, which Éomer knew to usually be a stale heal of bread or some sort of tasteless broth. _I will not act as a desperate man. _The thought of food was wonderful, but even here Éomer knew he must uphold his reputation...however long that reputation was to last as every moment dashed away a slight bit of hope.

However, the man did not visit his cell. Éomer listened to the sounds of the other captives as they wolfed down the rations given them. He felt empty, and leaned his aching ahead against the wall, closing his eyes.

_I am a Marshal of the Mark. I did what I did in service to the people. _

_Why, then, do I feel like such a traitor? _

The darkness seemed to close in, and Éomer shivered as the cold penetrated his light tunic. He could not so much as wrap his arms about himself, as they were restricted, and so the lengths of his arms were exposed to the icy touch. Who knew what would happen here, or how long he would remain in this place? Maybe a few hours, a few days, or maybe his life...it would be a story to ridicule, surely—that the king's nephew, a lord of Rohan, rotted away in the dungeon of his own home, slowly succumbing to darkness and cold and starvation and thirst.

_And fear, perhaps. Do I even know what these emotions are that I feel?_

His only hope was in a single promise of one man, and in that he instilled more faith than anything else, for despite being quick-earned Aragorn was his friend, as were Legolas and Gimli, and Éomer trusted them and their word more than he trusted anything else in Middle-Earth at the moment. He said a prayer for them. _May they find their friends, and take the halflings out of harm's way. May they make haste and turn to Edoras. _

* * *

Éomer was just nodding off into fitful sleep when somebody came to his cell. 

It was Derimir, who had mocked and hated Éomer ever since their youth, especially when both were vying for an army promotion and it had been given to the king's nephew. Éomer could still feel the cuts and bruises that the man had caused him the day before.

_A cunning mind...but a black heart. _

Derimir's eyes held a haughty look. "So, this is what the Third Marshal of the Mark has been reduced to; lying in a dungeon for treason. You were never worth your position."

Éomer ignored him, and leaned against the wall engrossed in shadows that filled his heart and mind.

"I trust you're hungry?"

At that Éomer responded, for when he turned there was a sneer on Derimir's face. "It was you who told them to deny me food."

"Actually, no, though I wouldn't have hesitated to. That was Gríma. I'm afraid you don't have many friends in the court, my lord."

"My friends are those warriors who are still loyal to Rohan."

Derimir's dark eyes flashed angrily at that. He took a step closer, and gripped one of the rusting steel bars tensely. "You think you know so much," he said, in a low and bitter voice. "But you are so naïve. Don't you understand? Have you _ever _understood? There is no 'good and evil'. There is nothing we have to stand for anymore. All there is for me, for us, for all of the Rohirrim, is power and glory. Gríma is giving me that, while our dying king has given you a prison cell. Look, Éomer, at where your worthless honor has landed you. You have to realize that there are bigger things happening here."

Éomer could not respond. He did not feel anger, or sadness, or resentment, simply...emptiness. It was as though everything he had ever believed in was gone. His eyes were starting to get used to this darkness that filled them, to the cold, and he just had a strange feeling that everything he had lived for had come to naught. The king _was _dying...and Rohan with him. Finally Éomer spoke in a quiet voice tinged with sorrow.

"My honor is still worth something...while you, you insult everything the Rohirrim believe in, and have forsaken the oath you took to serve and protect. You may not be wasting away now, but someday you will be, and all of your treasons and lies will return to haunt you."

At that, Derimir's temper flared, and he pulled a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked to door. Éomer braced himself for a blow as the man strode in. It came, another punch full in the face, and Éomer felt dazed from the sudden pain. What was worse was his helpless position, and he could do nothing but take the beating as Derimir kicked him in the stomach, causing him to retch what little food was left in him. The odor was horrendous. The disgusting mixture of vomit and drying blood on the ground was too much, and Éomer began to feel sick all over. Even Derimir grimaced at the sight and took a step backward.

As all this was taking place, Éomer turned his aching eyes to the doorway, and watched as a pale figure came into view. Wormtongue's lips parted into a malicious smile. Éomer felt rage in his heart. _Rohan has no honor left, not judging by these who lead it now. Gríma, Derimir...all of them were once men of the Mark, and now what are they, but turncloaks and murderers with no regard for what honor really means? _

_See, Saruman, Sauron, what scourge you have laid upon us. Look at it and laugh while you can. Soon it will come around and destroy you, smite you until you are nothing more than ashes on the barren ground and dust in the wind._

Wormtongue spoke Derimir's name silkily, and the man turned. Giving Éomer one last glance, he stalked away, after locking he door giving the bars a furious shake and leaving them vibrating, with the sounds of rusted steel's shrieks echoing in the corridor. Gríma did not need to say anything...he simply looked over Éomer with those cold eyes, which were readable enough: he had won. The traitorous advisor turned and left after Derimir.

"Valar," Éomer whispered, shaking his head while he spit blood out onto the floor. He licked his dry, cracked lips, and his mouth salivated from lack of water while the pit of his stomach went through a painful cramp.

Éomer's mind went to his people. Were they starving in the streets? Whilst Wormtongue and his henchmen plotted with Isengard, what was truly becoming of the once proud and honorable realm of Rohan? Innocents were suffering as much as prisoners in these forsaken lands. Was Illúvatar abandoning his children that dwelled in the Mark?

_There are bigger things happening here. _

Derimir was right, but not in the way that had been expressed. The selfish, such as himself, did not look past their own gain. _There are bigger things happening here. _And there were. The battle between good and evil, the two extremities themselves...it was the biggest thing of all, and the narrow-minded would simply never see it. Saruman was a traitor and would eventually betray even those that he had tricked into his service. Éomer even felt a bit of pity for their deception...just a bit, though, for his wounds that ached and bled and his empty stomach willed him to think otherwise.

_There is still good in the world, _thought Éomer. _I have seen it. _

There were many people remaining who were good of heart, Éomer knew. His sister was among them, and all those soldiers who had come with him, and the three travelers who had been seeking out their halfling friends...and a grey wizard. Gandalf had been truly good. Éomer felt a sudden pang of grief for the wizard he hadn't truly known, for in losing him, the world had lost the person who might have been its greatest source of hope. _And my uncle, he is still good, deep down in the soul that hides beneath the broken body. Théoden must be alive somewhere...not as a cold and withdrawn old monarch, but as the man who once acted like a father to me and placed my sword in my hands. _Éomer's fingers groped blindly, longing for the feel of Gúthwinë's familiar hilt.

It was now in Men that Middle-Earth must hope. The Elves were leaving to distant lands, and soon enough none would remain. _I have to be strong. Willing or not, I am a leader in the world of Men, and I must be so even in these dark times. _

And the world of Men must now place _their _trust in the only ones who could save them...Aragorn and his companions. Isildur's Bane had been found, and Éomer knew not what had become of it, but he did know that Isildur's heir would play a part in salvation from the doom it would someday bring. It was a privilege and gift to know such a man. Memories passed through Éomer's mind, and he remembered the Sword that was Broken as it was swept from its sheath and glistened with its own fire in the sunlight.

Éomer peered through the bars of his cell, and saw his own light, flickering on the wall from the far torch. He managed a small smile.

_Even in this darkness, there is light. _

_And soon it was burn bright enough for even those in the darkest places to behold..._

_For me to behold. _

* * *

Out in the main hall, Gríma paced with a feeling of satisfaction in his foul heart. The two men who had posed a threat to Saruman's dominion in Rohan had been eliminated. Théodred was dead, his body rotting away in a stone tomb by those of his forefathers, while Éomer was incarcerated in the deepest and most fetid of dungeons for treason against the king. 

However, he was not fully satisfied...now, with Éomer out of the way, Gríma saw an opportunity to take something else he greatly desired. _I was promised my share in the treasure. Now, my time is come, and I will claim it, Saruman. _

He exited the throne room, and went down past several chambers in the Golden Hall, unhindered by guards who averted their gazes...until he arrived at a far room in which the only window had been shut, and the woman within dwelled in darkness.

She was standing beside a wash-bowl, running the cold water over her fair hands, which had grown pallid from long hours of shying from the sun.

"Might I interrupt?" said Gríma, standing in the doorway.

Éowyn looked up, and there could be seen tears brimming on the edge of her large blue eyes. Her golden hair was unkempt but lovely, falling across her white shoulders in gentle waves. Her dress was of pale silver that accented her features perfectly. "I would prefer to be left alone." He walked in nonetheless, feeling desire growing within him, for her beauty was too great to bear—especially for a man whose life had been so detached from love.

She turned away from the bowl and wiped her hands lightly on a towel, then turned to Gríma, unsure of what to say as he approached. He felt her tremble slightly as he put a hand on her cheek, and found it as cold as a midwinter night.

"Look at you," he said, caressing Éowyn's face softly. "So beautiful, yet you have grown so cold, avoiding light's touch. Why, Éowyn? Why are you so distant and cold, like a spring flower still clinging to the frost of winter? Why do you fall into this depression?"

Her lovely eyes met his, and there was unspeakable grief and anger lingering within. They were roughly of the same height, which pleased Gríma to note. "My cousin is dead," she said, her voice quiet and shaky. "My cousin is dead, my uncle, the king, dies upon his throne, and my brother is locked away in a prison cell. All that I love has been taken from me and I can do nothing. Do you see my grief as ungrounded? I am but a woman, and considered inferior in the eyes of the world, therefore must stand on the side and watch as the only family I have left is taken from me. I always had my brother, at least, and now here is gone. What do I have left to love?"

"There are other things to love in the world." He took both her hands between them, and ran his fingers lightly over the smooth skin. "Come to me, Éowyn, and I will show you love. I can give you power, so that you can make changes that you so desire, and be rid of that sadness that I know haunts your heart so. Do you not desire to be loved as well to love in return? I can give you that, my lady. My masters are strong and powerful and can give to you whatever it is you seek. If you should wish for Rohan to be prosperous, they will make it greater than any realm in folklore, a land straight out of the legends of old. Come, you know you desire this."

He licked his lips, seeing that she was considering, knowing no other way out.

Then Éowyn's eyes grew hard and angry. Her hands tensed, and she withdrew them quickly to her side as though disgusted by Wormtongue's touch, and she pursed her lips.

"Get away from me, snake!" she stepped away, and continued to distance herself from him as he reached for her. "Your words are poison. You mean to draw me to darkness, but the blood of my ancestors dwells in me and I will not fall prey to your temptation." With that, Éowyn turned decisively and strode from her chamber, her hair and dress flowing out behind her.

And Wormtongue was left alone, so very alone, in a room that now seemed devoid of beauty.

* * *

_**tHe EnD oF cHaPtEr SiX**_

_**Coming soon: When Théoden is freed from Saruman's spell, what will become of Rohan and Éomer? The king awakens to find the world about him in ruin...and that the enemy plans to strike his land. The time will come for the Rohirrim to arise and once again see the light of battle. **_

_**This chapter was much shorter than the last one. I'm thinking that's a good thing. But maybe it all comes down to cheese either way.**_

**_pLeAsE rEvIeW_**


	7. Chapter 7: A King Reborn

_**Hey, cool, I got more reviews this time. Yay!**_

_**Book dialogue in this chapter. I might make a notation and I might not; I am feeling very lazy at the moment. **_

_**Disclaimer: I disclaim the claim which is nonexistent. Must I put disclaimers any more? **_

Chapter 7: A King Reborn

It was the next day that redemption came like a swift answer to long-sought prayers, upon the break of dawn.

Éomer himself was not witness to the miracle performed that morning. He was in a semi-unconscious state, drifting between sleep and awakening, for the conditions would not allow rest to come and yet his weariness did not wish to permit otherwise. But many in the court _were _present. Éowyn was among them, and would later recount all of the occurrences to her brother.

The trumpets had blown at sunrise, bearing the news of visitors. Gríma's eyes had darted to the far window at this...and, to his horror, he had seen none other than Gandalf Greyhame whom Éomer, along with many others, had thought to be dead. At his side were three beings whose faces were not familiar to those dwelling here but who had already played a critical role in the fight for Middle-Earth and who would continue to do so: Aragorn son of Arathorn, the Heir of Isildur who had sworn only two days before to Éomer that he would turn his sights to Edoras, as well as his companion: the sylvan elf Legolas, who stood out due to being so uncommonly fair of face, and Gimli son of Gloin, the dwarf whose great respect for the Elven kindred would one day land him in places unimaginable. Wormtongue knew upon seeing these visitors that there was nothing he could do to stop their entrance. He ordered them disarmed, which stirred a bit of a quarrel among Aragorn (who did not wish to leave his mighty sword into the possession of another) and the Rohirrim guards posted at the doorway of the Golden hall. Yet it was resolved due to Gandalf's urgings.

Then, the four had entered, and things had occurred that were so surreal (beginning with the fact that Mithrandir was indeed alive) that few could later find words to describe them. There had been a powerful feel of light conquering darkness, good over evil, in which demons were cast out back to the abyss from whence they came. There was a transformation that was more like a return after a prolonged and accursed absence. Gandalf had risen in triumph, performing the unimaginable before the eyes of many onlookers, and in the process throwing aside his grey and faded cloak to reveal white garments that shone like the face of the sun.

And Saruman, whose presence had ever been so unwelcome in Rohan and caused so much misery, was sent out of King Théoden's mind, leaving a righteous man to fulfill righteous deeds while he, a fallen Istar, would remain locked in his Isengard tower with no control in the Riddermark.

All this happened well out of the dungeons' reach, although even through them a strange sensation was awoken in Éomer. He became suddenly more alert. It was as though an inner fire had been kindled within his heart, of things once lost and now renewed that would lead to something greater. He opened his eyes groggily to see the light of the torch brighter against the wall outside of the barred door to his cell. A familiar presence could be felt—actually, four, and without knowing of anything that was actually occurring in the hall, Éomer sensed that it might have come time for the Flame of the West to arrive in the Mark and with it bring surmountable good.

The light against the cold, black wall seemed to be growing more intense. Éomer observed it keenly. Could it be his imagination? No, he decided. Torchlight was approaching. Pretty soon the warm light of the flames pierced the bars of his cell and was cast across the ground to the dirt-encrusted walls. Somehow, Éomer felt that it was not a repeated visit, that it was not someone who wished him ill. There was hope within him.

And that hope had good reason to be. For the one who came to Éomer's dungeon was none other than Háma, one of the older members of Théoden's court who served as a guard. Háma's eyes were glistening and his face, lined with wrinkles of experience, was lit with joy. In his hands he held a key.

"My lord Éomer!" cried Háma. "Faithless was I that such as occurred today would ever happen, and yet happen it did. Those who did wrong will face justice and those who did right face it as well!" He continued to speak excitedly while unlocking the door, and his elation was so contagious that Éomer found his own lips forming a smile. "Every day of your imprisonment was like a blow to my own heart. I have long served and it hurts me to see Rohan so fallen that a man such as yourself is reduced to the dungeons, and today, I was stunned by everything that happened and at its end I was summoned to bring you forth!"

"What has happened?" asked Éomer. He was surprised to find how hoarse and weak his voice was.

"A miracle," was all that Háma said. He had entered and for a moment looked about with disgust and sadness at the conditions of the cell, at the blood and dirt and dried vomit, taking in the putrid smell.

The older man knelt and unlocked the shackles, which fell with a reverberating clang to the ground, now with Éomer's blood dried onto them atop that of others. Éomer's shoulders ached agonizingly from being held in such a position. He drew them forward slowly, and the bones of his shoulder blades seemed to resist the change; when they were finally in their regular formation, it was more painful than it had been with the chains on. Standing was another matter. Éomer's legs were numb from disuse, and he fell the first few times when trying to stand, even clutching to Háma for support. When Éomer did manage to make it to his feet he could not walk straight and stumbled many times.

_I will stumble here, in the darkness, and trip and perhaps even fall...but when I am out in the hall again, in the place where I belong, I will stand and walk erect even if it were to kill me._

Háma and Éomer made their way to the exit, and Éomer ignored the steel glares of other prisoners who had indeed deserved such punishment as they were given.

The light once leaving was dazzling to wan eyes, causing Éomer to blink several times. It took a bit of walking to reach the main hall. At least by that time Éomer was walking on his own again, and a welcome feeling it was—to be in control again. Yet when they were nearing a different corridor, Éomer stopped and turned to Háma.

"Háma," he said. "I would like for you to fetch something for me from my chambers or from wherever they have stashed it."

"And what is that, my lord?"

"Bring to me Gúthwinë, my long sword. I should like to hold its hilt in my hand once more."

"My lord Éomer, if I should bring a prisoner forth armed..."

"I will lay it at the feet of the king."

Háma considered for a moment, then left Éomer alone as he went to the end of the corridor and turned the corner.

_So Gríma has put it in with his own belongings. _Éomer grimaced.

It seemed a lengthy amount of time before Háma returned, Gúthwinë in his hand, sheathed and radiant as always. Éomer reached out and took it eagerly. He unsheathed it partway, so that the steel might reflect light before his eyes, and shine. Wormtongue and his men had obviously not bothered to clean the blade. Dried blood still lingered on it, flaking off as it was pulled from the scabbard. But despite this Gúthwinë still held its perfection. Éomer smiled.

Háma was shifting beside him, in a mixture of impatience and excitement.

"Come, please, good sir, for in the Great Hall you will find a true king and things your eyes never thought to see!"

Éomer laughed outright, such was his joy, joy for virtually no reason as he had not yet seen Théoden or any others. It was a simple elation that came from the feeling of being alive. To be so full, complete, in control of your own actions, free to move about and not be chained to a wall like a restrained beast! To see light and beauty! There was sudden regret in his heart for thinking of those prisoners, _they deserve this. _No one deserved it. Perhaps when things were sorted out, Éomer would see to it that they were given a more just punishment.

Éomer then re-sheathed the sword let Háma lead him forth to the Great Hall. A nervousness fluttered in his mind at what he would encounter, and within the few seconds that it took to reach the throne room of the Great Hall, that nervousness would be replaced by a mixture of surprise, bewilderment, relief, and happiness.

At that moment everything came into view.

Éomer's eyes grew wide, and he felt at once all the above mentioned emotions in a landslide.

There stood a wizard, garbed in white that seemed to glow with an inner light, carven white staff in hand. Yet his face was familiar.

_The dead walk again, _thought Éomer. Gandalf the Grey, now Gandalf the White...he lived indeed. Shadows were rising from beyond the grave. _Unless Aragorn was playing me false when he said the wizard was dead. _But that notion seemed unrealistic.

Speaking of which, Éomer's eyes drifted over a few yards to see the heir of Isildur standing by one of the engraved pillars. There was something that stood out about this man and his company. Though his earth-tone clothing might be commonplace and worn, there was a regal and determined look to his eye. Legolas and Gimli flanked him with their own foreign features noticeable among the men. There also was Éowyn, Éomer's sister, and they exchanged a smile. It brought so much relief to Éomer's heart to see his sister smile...so long had she dwelled in bitter darkness with depression overcoming her from within. Her smile brought out the beauty that suited her so.

But where all stares were fixed was upon the king of Rohan.

Where was the feeble man? The old withered slave of his mind, crouched and crooked in a chair with a distant look in glazed eyes? That man was nowhere to be seen. The man that stood in his place was one that stirred Éomer's memory...a king, with his look alert and bright, golden hair bearing slight tinges of grey and white. The son of Thengel sat upon his throne erect. His skin was more taught and less wrinkled. _The Théoden of my youth. Théoden, king of Rohan...my uncle whom I love. _

_How did this come to be? _

At that moment, Gandalf was speaking. Théoden was looking at his hand, flexing his fingers, unfamiliar with the strength in them.

"Your fingers would remember their old strength better, if they grasped a sword-hilt," said the Istar.

Théoden rose and looked about. His hand went instinctively to his waist, where a scabbard would normally hang, but nothing was there. "Where has Gríma stowed it?" the king said quietly.

Éomer looked at Gúthwinë in his hand, and with boldness stepped forth and called out. "Take this, dear lord! It was ever at your service!"

The men looked upon Éomer, at his haggard appearance, and it seemed that some scarcely recognized him. Éomer knelt and bowed his head low, raising the sword forward.

"How comes this?" Théoden's tone held an edge of anger.

Háma came forth, nervously, his frail frame trembling slightly as he confessed to doing what he had thought right. "It was my doing, lord; I understood that Éomer was to be set free." He turned to Éomer, a wide grin coming to him. "Such joy was in my heart that maybe I have erred. Yet, since he was free again, and he Marshal of the Mark, I brought him his sword as he bade me."

Those around gazed upon Éomer expectantly. The room was silent.

Éomer tilted his head slightly upward, until his own eyes locked with Théoden's.

"To lay at your feet, my lord."

Tension followed. Théoden said nothing as he looked down at his nephew before him, nor did anyone move or make sound. Finally it was Gandalf who spoke and broke the pending silence.

"Will you not take the sword?" Gandalf asked.

Éomer watched as Théoden's hand came forward, and touched Gúthwinë's hilt in little more than a caress; then strength and color came upon the king. His hand gripped the hilt with vivacity and he swung the blade free. The sound of steel against sheath reverberated, and Éomer felt himself smiling as he looked at it slicing the air, proud, being raised high for all the Mark to see. Then the hall grew silent, and as the blade was held high over the heads of all in attendance, Théoden, king of Rohan, began to chant in the tongue of his forefathers. His voice was full of a vigor that Éomer had missed more than he could ever say.

_Arise now, arise, Riders of Théoden!  
__Dire deeds awake, dark is it eastward.  
__Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded!  
__Forth Eorlingas!_

The Rohirrim in the hall came forward triumphantly, drawing their own swords to shine beside the one in Théoden's hand. In unison, they raised their voices to the king. "Command us!

Éomer's grin broadened as he looked from Gandalf to Théoden. There was hope left; he had just witnessed as much, and it gave him determination and pride. The Riders of Rohan would help bring this Middle-Earth to justice.

"_Westu Théoden hál!_" he said, still kneeling. All who looked at the Marshal of the Mark saw his eyes glistening, more bright and joyous than they had seen in years. "It is a joy to us to see you return into your own." Éomer turned to Gandalf, feeling apologetic for every time ill-spoken tongues had convinced him to think ill of the wizard. "Never again shall it be said, Gandalf, that you come only with grief!"

Théoden's expression, which had been stern before, was now relieved and alive. He beckoned for Éomer to rise. His nephew did as much, and Théoden handed him Gúthwinë. The hilt was still warm from the king's grasp. _The warmth of life, _thought Éomer.

"Take back your sword, Éomer, sister-son!" said Théoden.

The two looked to one another, with fond memories in their minds, and held that gaze just for a moment in which they were not king and subject, nor misunderstanding of one another...they were family. Uncle and nephew as it had been before. While the rest of the world had a great king returned, Éomer had more. Before him now someone he had once considered almost a father, someone he loved, and who had been lost as though to the icy touch of death.

No more.

_There is good in the world. There is hope. And after seeing this, this miracle, I will never forget it. _

Théoden turned and beckoned Háma to fetch his own sword. Éomer was left, then, with contentment in his heart, and hope for the dawning of a new world that had almost fallen to darkness...but that never would.

* * *

_**The end of Chapter 7. **_

_**Coming soon: Éomer is proclaimed the heir of Rohan, which bears responsibility as well as more leadership than he has ever experienced before. Is Éomer prepared to be the voice of the Mark? Also, Gríma Wormtongue is cast out of Edoras...and the city must prepare to escape, to flee to mountain refuge, for danger unlike Rohan has ever known is coming. **_

**_I am much obliged to all readers and reviewers. J _**


	8. Chapter 8: The Heir of Rohan

_**Here is Chapter 8! **_

**_Disclaimer: I do not own LOTR in the least, nor any book dialogue contained in this chapter; I only own the characters I made up, like Derimir. Henceforth ALL LYRICS AND POETRY USED BELONG TO AND WERE WRITTEN BY ME. I put this in caps because Fanfiction is now paranoid about posting things you didn't write. _**

Chapter 8: The Heir of Rohan

_What's fated to be somehow will find a way_

_No matter if the road seems ever so broken_

_Or the shadows ever so deep_

_If we change because of faithless warnings_

_Then regret is all we'll ever feel. _

Éomer sat at the king's board in the great house, along with Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. Éowyn was there as well, serving food and drink, and Éomer noticed with a grin how her eyes kept darting discreetly over to Aragorn, who sat on Éomer's left. Théoden sat on his right. Gandalf, in turn, sat to Théoden's right, and the two companions of Aragorn were beside the ranger. In the events that had followed the renewal of Théoden, such things had occurred as the exile

At the moment, conversation concerned the treachery of Saruman and Wormtongue, and was occurring primarily between Théoden and Gandalf. Éomer found his mind drifting at times. His thoughts were busy, with wonder and excitement, so that he simply could not concentrate on the discussion. He would occasionally pay attention at times when Théoden said such things as "I owe much to Éomer; Faithful heart may have forward tongue." He did, however, have the opportunity to converse much with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli.

"It felt wonderful to finally rid this hall of Wormtongue's betrayal," Éomer said to those beside him, regarding them with grateful eyes. "You do not know what joy you have brought me. I knew after meeting you that you would help bring redemption to Edoras."

Gimli raised an eyebrow. "That we would, or that Aragorn would? I seem to recall a death threat."

Éomer could only smile sheepishly. "For that, I apologize, my friend. Though Legolas was quick enough to defend you."

"I would do so without hesitation for any of my friends," said the elf.

"And that is a valuable friend to have," Aragorn said in response, to which Éomer nodded his agreement.

At that point, their conversation stopped, for Théoden turned from his private conversation and addressed all of his guests. He had just granted Gandalf a kingly gift in giving him Shadowfax, lord of the horses. Now he made the offer to the others. "And to you my other guests I will offer such things as may be found in my armory. Swords you do not need, but there are helms and coats of mail of cunning work, gifts to my fathers out of Gondor. Choose from these ere we go, and may they serve you well!" The king's expression was warm and hospitable as he called forth men to bring some of the objects out of the armory.

* * *

As Éomer stood with his three friends looking over the armor, hismemories drifted back to all those times that he had polished and fixed the weapons and attire. He felt a certain pride at seeing Aragorn and Legolas arrayed in the mail of Rohan and Gondor. How the helms and mail gleamed, with their inlaid gems and refracting colors! It made for a regal display. Gimli took only an iron and leather cap while Gandalf was content with the gift of Shadowfax. Gimli's cap was one which had belonged to the king himself, and the other went back to the tables as the dwarf and the king conversed lightly about it. Théoden joined them a short while after and accepted a goblet of wine from Éowyn.

"_Ferthu Théoden hál!" _said the king's niece, bearing the wine with a joyous gleam in her eye. "Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee at thy going and coming."

Wine was then passed to the guest, but Éowyn lingered by Aragorn, and she handed him the cup with hands that trembled slightly. "Hail Aragorn son of Arathorn!" she said, smiling.

"Hail Lady of Rohan!" Aragorn replied with a neutral expression.

_She fancies him, _Éomer thought with a grin. He wondered fleetingly if Aragorn had a woman. He supposed such a man must have a lover...if not, perhaps his sister would find herself a fine suitor.

_I wonder when it is that I will find love, _Éomer wondered. Then he thought back on all those family members and friends that he had lost. _In the past, my fiercest love has led to my fiercest pain. _

As all reflected on earlier conversation, the intense situation of danger regarding Saruman's offensive against the Mark was made evident. The Riders of Rohan would have to leave...and it was probable that most of the people would leave as well. Edoras was no longer safe. Even in the joy of the day, the threat was a damper on high spirits, and lingered in the air, creating a atmosphere that bordered between apprehension and celebration. It soon began to tilt more towards the first as Théoden openly addressed the subject. It happened after the drink and festivities had pretty much ceased. Théoden walked forth to the doors of the hall, where a crowd had gathered, common people among lords and heralds.

It was in the words that followed that Éomer's life changed in his mentality.

"Behold!" Théoden said, his voice clear and ringing. "I go forth, and it seems like to be my last riding. I have no child. Théodred my son is slain. I name Éomer my sister-son to be my heir."

All eyes turned to Éomer, who stood at the king's side. It was but a single sentence in a speech that seemed to be an obvious decision and held little important to those in attendance...but it was so much more to the one to whom it was directed. Théoden gave his nephew the slightest glance and the hint of a smile.

_I am the heir of Rohan, _Éomer thought to himself, unsure of what to feel as so many emotions threatened to overcome him. He looked out at the crowds. Everything seemed to change perspective; no longer were these simply his kinsmen, his fellow citizens of Rohan whom he had sworn to protect. They were the people he would one day rule. In a millisecond, everything had changed. _Abrupt change...the story of my life, _he thought. He felt the eyes of those behind him. Éowyn laid a gentle hand on her brother's shoulder and gave him a fair smile.

"If neither of us return, then choose a new lord as you will," Théoden continued. "But to someone I must now entrust my people that I leave behind, to rule them in my place. Which of you will stay?"

A silence followed Théoden's words, and the men in high positions exchanged glances, wondering to whom leadership would fall. The king turned to the lords.

"Is there none whom you would name? In whom do my people trust?"

Unexpectedly, Háma stepped forward. He spoke rather quietly. "In the House of Eorl."

Théoden looked slightly confused. "But Éomer I cannot spare, nor would he stay." _After all this time, he still knows me well, _Éomer thought as his uncle continued. "And he is the last of that House."

Háma turned rather to Éowyn, smiling warmly. "I said not Éomer, and he is not the last. There is Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, his sister. She is fearless and high-hearted. All love her. Let her be as lord to the Eorlingas, while we are gone."

Théoden seemed content with the idea. Éomer felt Éowyn's grip on his shoulder tighten, and he laid a gentle hand over hers. _This is what she wants, _he thought. _To have power and influence rather than to simply serve men. Yet...is it? _Something about Éowyn's expression when he turned to her revealed something else. A moment later Éomer realized what it was.

_She wants to come with us. She wants to fight. _

He thought back on all the times he had practiced with her, and her natural talent with a sword. _She is an excellent fighter..._

"It shall be so," Théoden said, seating himself before the doors as he looked to his niece. "Let the heralds announce to the folk that the Lady Éowyn will lead them!"

Éowyn knelt before the king as many eyes bore down on her. Théoden gave to her a sword and corslet. Éomer watched as his sister unsheathed the blade the slightest bit, looking over the steel as it glinted in the sun. He thought he saw a faint smile on her lips.

"Farewell sister-daughter!" said Théoden as he looked down at Éowyn. Then he turned his gaze upward and looked over the people of Edoras who had gathered there. "Dark is the hour, yet maybe we shall return to the Golden Hall. But in Dunharrow the people may long defend themselves, and if the battle go ill, thither will come all who escape."

Éowyn looked suddenly distressed, and lifted her bowed head. "Speak not so! A year shall I endure for every day that passes until your return."

Aragorn stepped forward, and Éowyn's eyes drifted over to him. "The king shall come again. Fear not! Not West but East does our doom await us."

Éomer sensed a double meaning. As the gathered lords and heralds and chiefs turned and began to go once again into the Golden Hall as Théoden had proposed, his gaze lingered on the heir of Isildur, whose expression was impossible to read as he walked over to where Legolas and Gimli stood, exchanging a few quiet words with them that Éomer couldn't hear.

He saw, upon descending the stair, that Éowyn stood alone before the huge double doors at the entrance. He hesitated, and then decided to stay back a moment. Aragorn glanced at him but continued on with Gimli and Legolas. Soon, the merry voices died down, and all Éomer could hear were the sounds of his footfalls as he went to stand beside Éowyn.

"Today has been a day for change," he said quietly.

She gave a small smile. "It has been a day of kings. I congratulate you, my brother. One day it is you who will rule Rohan and see to its prosperity."

They were silent for a few moments as walked out the doors and stared out at the horizon. Éomer knew that his sister had mixed feelings—she was overwhelmed by her sudden attraction to Aragorn, and yet excited by it. Éowyn had always been drawn to solitude due to those that misunderstood her. Éomer draped an affectionate arm about her shoulders.

"When we leave," he said. "It is _you _who will be as ruler here. I know that you can keep our people safe."

She sighed deeply, never removing her eyes from the sky and landscape before her. "It is an honor, indeed, to be able to have some part in the well-being of Rohan; that I might have some part in this while the men go to fight."

"You will have your chance," he said without hesitation. Even if the opportunity to fight was not placed before her, Éomer knew that she would find a way to eventually be part of battle. And, at times, when the fighting was going ill, he knew that her excellent sword-arm could be of great use.

Éowyn said nothing in return.

* * *

The muster did not take long. For years the army had trained and prepared for battle such as this, so they were ready only minutes after being summoned; their drive was all the greater, for hearing the voice of the king commanding them served as an inspiration. Thousands of men there were. They were mounted already on the saddles of their horses, holding their heads high and their spears upright with pride. Éomer could not help but smile at their readiness to serve as he swung a saddle over his stallion, Firefoot's, bare back.

A little ways away, he saw Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli beginning to ready the two horses that belonged to them, and decided to go over and converse with them some moments before the departure. Gandalf stood apart from them as he spoke to some of the Rohirrim. Éomer noted how uncomfortable Gimli looked, and led his own horse over to where they stood.

"Hail, Gimli Glóin's son!" he said with a welcoming smile. Before all this started, he needed to make amends with the dwarf concerning his harsh words towards the Lady Galadriel. "I have not had time to learn gentle speech under your rod, as you promised. But shall we not put aside our quarrel? At least I will speak no evil again of the Lady of the Wood."

"I will forget my wrath for awhile, Éomer son of Éomund," the dwarf said, some of the fear of riding subsiding from his eyes as he concentrated on conversation. "But if ever you chance to see the lady Galadriel with your eyes, then you shall acknowledge her the fairest of ladies, or our friendship will end."

Éomer consented with a laugh. "So be it! But until that time pardon me, and in token of pardon ride with me, I beg. Gandalf will be at the head with the Lord of the Mark, but Firefoot, my horse, will bear us both, if you will."

Gimli was pleased by this, and Éomer pulled the dwarf up to sit behind him. Gimli's only request was that Legolas ride at their side.

Éomer wanted nothing more than to have his new found friends by him as they started out on a new journey. "It shall be so! Legolas upon my left, and Aragorn upon my right, and none will dare to stand before us!"

Then Gandalf came over, inquiring as to the whereabouts of Shadowfax. Éomer watched as his men told the wizard that the creature ran free over the plains and was astonished when Shadowfax came at Gandalf's whistle. His white mane was pure in the sunlight, and he sped toward the assembled Rohirrim with a speed that few horses could match.

"Were the breath of the West Wind to take a body visible, even so would it appear," Éomer whispered to himself.

Théoden then make the announcement public that he was giving Shadowfax to Gandalf as a gift, and named the wizard a lord of the Mark and chieftain of Eorlingas. A great cheer rose up. Gandalf spoke his thanks, then cast aside the grey hat and garments that he wore to reveal white robes that matched his rare stallion. He mounted Shadowfax and they were as one.

_Who is this, but one of the Valar themselves, come to Middle-Earth to lead us forth to salvation? _

Éomer was in awe and did not even realize that a smile reflecting that wonder was upon his face. In his heart he felt more joy than he had ever thought possible. For all of this to happen in a single day...his dear uncle's redemption, his freedom from imprisonment, the muster of the Rohirrim...

Théoden cast a look back at his nephew, a private, loving look that only father and son could understand. For that moment there was no one else in the world. _He has truly returned to us..._

And Éomer felt inside of him the same determination and inspiration that he could see in the eyes of the Riders of Rohan.

Aragorn gestured to Gandalf. "Behold the White Rider!" he cried out.

Thousands of voices rose in unison. _"The White Rider! Our King and the White Rider!" _

Éomer took up the call, letting himself become one in the exhilaration, in the motivation. _"Forth Eorlingas!" _And their many spears and swords were thrust forward in the air as inflection to the words. Up above, the trumpets sounded, drowning out the sounds of the war cries. Even the horses were caught in the moment—in an unusual unity with their riders, they reared, neighing and tossing their manes in the wind.

Théoden raised his sword arm, and all gazed upon the king's blade for half a moment, before spurring their horses forward; a host so great that the ground trembled beneath them and the wind changed its course.

Éomer looked back, and glimpsed one last time at Éowyn; she stood alone before the doors as the leader of Rohan. He vowed that he would survive this battle and return to her.

_Voice in darkness reaches out to answer Destiny's Call..._

This was his destiny. Éomer felt the bursts of wind rushing past him, sweeping him along with the crowd, and could hear nothing but thundering hoof beats that resonated for miles on end. He was a Rider of Rohan, the Heir of Rohan.

And at the moment, there was nothing more in the world he would have wished for.

* * *

_**Sorry for the late update! Really hope everyone liked this chapter. **_

**_Coming Soon: Éomer stands as part of the defense at Helm's Deep. Yet with the casualties and intensity of the war, will his own morale fall? Éomer must learn to accept loss once more as many of the Rohirrim are taken by death, and overcome trepidation so that his sword can ring true in defense of the Mark. _**

**_This chapter was shorter. Optimistically thinking...maybe you guys will have liked it and found it interesting:)_**

**_As usual, please R & R, and Happy Fourth of July to all Americans! _**

**_Oh, and I'm no longer allowed to do review replies. :(_**


	9. Chapter 9: Before the Storm

_**Hi again. **_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own LOTR nor do I own the book dialogue contained in this chapter. But the other day I gathered a bag of acorns. **_

Chapter 9: Before the Storm

_Memories of past trials and tears  
__Foreboding for the future's fears  
__Uncertainty for what might come  
__Hope that a battle might be won_

_Before the Cold  
__Before the Morn  
__Before the Loss  
__Before the Storm..._

_It all comes crashing in a raging sea  
__May we live to see the days of peace. _

Sometime over the course of the journey, Éomer stopped thinking about the possibility of upcoming bloodshed. The way the light hit the golden grass during the day and particularly at the sun's setting was heavenly. A sort of glow reached up from the earth, of that same gold hue, and touched the sky, while making the armor of the Rohirrim and the steel of their weapons shine. It was like being lifted up...far from troubles, far from haunted memories and forsaken times.

They were traveling westward. The foothills of the White Mountains rose up nearby, and if one looked to the mountain summits it was a sweeping and majestic view. Every now and then, the large company would ford streams, around which greener grass grew, in contrast to that which covered Rohan's plains.

Éomer knew that most of the others were driven by fear, by need, not even paying heed to the landscape around them, and felt almost ashamed that his mind should so easily wander and forget its purpose. But if one did not pause in the darkest times to look upon beauty, what reprieve was there from evil? However, he did not try to make light of their situation, and during breaks in which they set up camp would discuss battle tactics and other such grim subjects with the likes of Théoden, Aragorn, and some warriors of high ranking. The host had a process of posting mounted guards and sending out scouts during these periods. Others would tend to the horses, who needed rest after so much ceaseless exertion, and then take time to recover strength themselves.

As time wore on, the shadows behind them grew deeper, and as they rode new territory marked the fact that they were approaching Helm's Deep. Even Éomer's heart was burdened as the hour of darkness drew nearer.

* * *

They stopped on the second day of riding to gain information from a small group of guards that was stationed out along the farther reaches of the Misty Mountains. Éomer himself did not speak with Ceorl, who was their leader, but later on as he rested beside a campfire, he heard footsteps approaching him and looked up to see the king, his face a picture of weariness.

"What news from the western guard?" Éomer asked, standing as Théoden came nearer.

His uncle sighed deeply. "Ill news. Many of our forces have fallen. To think that all this time, I was a slave in my own mind, and blinded to the fact that my people are perishing." Théoden sat on the ground then, dignity and rank forgotten in the midst of despair, and held his head in his hands. "He wanted to tell you, Éomer, that there is no hope ahead.

"I gave him words of comfort, and bade him to ride with us. The man was overjoyed as were the others with him. They are beside us now, with hope rekindled, looking to destroy the wolves of Isengard who have so brutally slain their kinsmen."

Éomer hesitated a moment, then sat beside his uncle. "And you, my lord? Are you without hope?"

"Without hope..." Théoden looked up then, the light of the fire dancing in his drained eyes. "I suppose not. It would be impossible to constantly give encouragement to these men if I myself do not believe the words I say. No, I have not given in...but these tidings weigh on me like lead."

"They let the thirst for vengeance drive them. Uncle, when you look to the future, think of the children, the people who have needlessly spilled their blood upon our land. These monsters were the cause of that. Remember that you are the king...lead them. Share their justified anger. Only then can we hope to do what's right."

Grimly, but with understanding and desire to do justice now evident in his expression, Théoden nodded. "It will be difficult. Especially with Gandalf having left me today."

Éomer started, his eyes wide in disbelief. "He has left? In such haste, with so little notice? To what purpose has he gone?" _Of all the surprises..._

"Do not doubt him, Éomer," said the king, a small grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "In all the years I have known Gandalf he has been a continued enigma. But everything he does is with purpose, and I know that whatever errand he has gone to attend is for the well-being of not only Rohan but all the free peoples of Middle-Earth."

"Whatever it takes, then, to change the way things are."

Théoden smiled at his nephew. "You are like your father, Éomer, in your cunning skill, but like my sister in your heart and mind."

Briefly, Éomer remembered the words his mother had said to him at Éomund's funeral, about how fear is not a weakness and that a true man confronts his fear to show true courage.

Was he afraid now?

His hand moved to Gúthwinë's sheath and he put his hand on the hilt for comfort.

"I suppose I am, uncle."

_And I am not ashamed to admit it...to prove that cowardice and fear are not as similar as most would like to think. _

* * *

At that point the road turned southward. It changed their course to the Westfold Vale, where the stronghold of Helm's Deep stood with its stone towers and trumpets in the midst of the mountain Thrihyrne. Long had it stood as a refuge for the people of Rohan—mainly of the Westfold; the people of that region were in fact there at the present moment, as was their master, Erkenbrand.

Éomer could see Thrihyrne's peak in the distance, rising with ominous bearing. They were riding at a steady pace through the depths of a low valley. He had stopped little for conversation that day, as thoughts and memories were continuously flowing through his mind. The pit of his stomach was unsettled; partially from riding with little sustenance, partially from fear.

_I might be riding to my death...to the death of us all..._

_Valar, I'm so afraid. _

He didn't know what kept him from turning around right then and there, from going back to the thatched roofs of Edoras and the security of the Golden Hall in which he had grown. Then he remembered the look in Théodred's eyes as he breathed his last breath.

Suddenly, Éomer's thoughts were interrupted by the blaring of horns, accompanied by screams of pain and the sound of arrows flying free. He looked up and pushed windblown golden hair from his eyes, a sinking feeling within him.

A few moments later, a scout who had been sent forth earlier with a ground of others could be seen coming over the hills, a distressed look in the way he ran. Théoden brought his horse forth and stood before the messenger, glancing back and motioning for Éomer to stand beside him. The king's expression was grim.

Replacing his helmet upon his head, for he had removed it a short while ago due to the heat of the day, and urged his own stallion to move forward a bit. He brought the beast to a halt when it was level with Théoden's. Then they waited.

The scout was weary, and breathing hard by the time he came to a stop before them. His eyes were wide as are those of one who had just seen bloodshed. The young man gave a sloppy salute before rushing into his report.

"Warg riders, my lord! They are running unchecked through the valleys. A host of Wild Men and Orcs were hurrying southward from the Fords—they seem to be going towards Helm's Deep. We have found many of our folk lying slain as they fled thither. And we have met scattered companies, going this way and that, leaderless. What has become of Erkenbrand none seem to know. It is likely that he will be overtaken ere he can reach Helm's gate, if he has not already perished."

Théoden and Éomer shared a brief look. _Please, uncle, be their leader. Do not let despair or guilt rule you. Be a king. _Éomer's grip tightened on his horse's leather reins.

"Has aught been seen of Gandalf?" Théoden asked, the air of authority about him betrayed only by the pain in his eyes.

The scout nodded wearily before diving into an account of the Istar's appearances.

Éomer was only half-listening. Théoden had already assured him that Gandalf went about his dealings with purpose and was not much concerned for the wizard's safety, for one such as he could protect himself by many means. The people of the Westfold, however, the women and children who took refuge behind the walls of the Hornburg, were nearly defenseless without the host from Edoras—the soldiers already assembled there would not stand long against an army of Orcs and Wild Men from Isengard. Éomer's heart burned at the thought of Saruman's treachery and at the memory that the fallen wizard had almost gained control of Rohan through Théoden.

_One way or the other, Saruman desires the downfall of Rohan. He wishes us to be the example of the fate that shall befall all of Middle-Earth. _

A sense of duty rekindled within him, Éomer turned his attention back towards the conversation.

"...Is it known how great is the host that comes from the North?" Théoden was asking, having finished some sort of discussion over Gandalf and Wormtongue.

"It is very great. He that flies counts every foeman twice, yet I have spoken to stouthearted men, and I do not doubt that the main strength of the enemy is many times as great as all that we have there."

The scout's gaze shifted to Éomer as he finished speaking, and it very much seemed to be for reassurance. Sometimes one needs to look upon a young, able-bodied warrior more than a wearied king, in order to think that there may be some hope when these dark forces came upon them.

"Then let us be swift," Éomer answered, his eyes going to the horizon and the hills that stretched out before him, touched by the sun's rays. "Let us drive through such foes as are already between us and the fastness. There are caves in Helm's Deep where hundreds may lie hid; and secret ways lead thence up on to the hills."

"Trust not to secret ways," murmured Théoden thoughtfully. "Saruman has long spied out this land. Still in that place our defense may last long. Let us go!"

Éomer did not miss his uncle's bitterness or anger when mentioning Saruman, but did not have much time to contemplate it. Upon Théoden's word the host began to move forward again. First it was at a slow trot...then, it grew into a full-fledged gallop, as though spurred by Théoden's rising determination. Éomer's blood was starting to rush through him.

_Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? _

_They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow..._

The ancient lore of Rohan came to mind as Éomer rode forth with the Rohirrim to what would become a legend of its own.

* * *

The night was dark when they finally arrived before Helm's Gate. No stars shone this night, nor was the moon's brilliance present. Earlier Éomer had discussed some tactics for battle in the Dike with Aragorn and Legolas, but they had come to no true conclusion—they were obviously too few to defend Helm's Deep. Now that they came to the actual place, that fact was all the more evident. The Dike, which lay below the gate, was over a mile long and instable due to a wide breach. It was into that breach that they rode now, over a road and small stream. Éomer looked forth into the darkness of the rampart, his heart heavy. He and the others riding up front slowed their pace. The fortress rose tall and strong before them, a massive structure almost completely hewn from stone. Only once before, in much younger days, had Éomer been here. He could not help but be awed by its magnificence.

A sentinel came forth; in the darkness he could see only a great number riding towards him, the points of their spears shadows against the night. "Who goes there?"

Éomer looked to Théoden, who only gave a grim half-smile. "I think it would comfort him more to hear your voice, nephew, as it will be more familiar than mine."

Indeed; the voice of Théoden had long been silent in Rohan.

"The Lord of the Mark rides to Helm's Gate," Éomer replied. "I, Éomer son of Éomund, speak."

The sentinel rushed forward, the light of a lantern casting an eerie glow upon a face that was overcome with relief. "This is good tidings beyond hope. Hasten! The enemy is on your heels."

That was not comforting news. As they began to pass over the breach and greet the soldiers who were holding the Gate, Éomer hung back looked and looked behind them into the night, past the mass of the Rohirrim.

Far in the distance, a great shadow moved towards them. Éomer could make out no detail among them but felt fear grip his heart. He remembered words that his father had said to him so long ago, about war and bravery, and also those of his mother. Then he prayed that in the midst of battle he would not forget him.

Two lone horses were guided out of the host and came to stand beside him. Éomer looked to them, and saw that their riders were Aragorn and Legolas. Over the course of the trip Gimli had ridden with several warriors; Éomer knew not of the dwarf's current whereabouts, but it was a comfort to have at least these two friends beside him.

Legolas peered out into the gloom with his far-seeing eyes. "They are a great many," he said quietly. "My vision is not so keen on a night like this, where not even the light of Eärendil shines in the heavens, but I can see well enough the fetid creatures that make up this army. Their number far exceeds our own."

"Are there any beings among them beside Orcs and Wild Men?" Aragorn asked.

"There are some larger than Orcs. Uruks, I believe—like those who took Merry and Pippin captive."

"The ones my men slew when we rode out against orders," Éomer said, remembering very well that battle and the stench that had risen from the mound of dying corpses. "They are difficult to kill, with armor and shields that are nearly impenetrable." He hung his head with the sadness of lost hope—this might be one battle they could not win.

One of the horses pulled closer, and Éomer felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. He glanced sideways at Aragorn.

"We will find a way, son of Éomund," said the ranger quietly. "The evil of Mordor will not conquer Rohan—I promise you."

Éomer smiled, finding some small comfort in Aragorn's words, and gave a small nod, which his friend returned. Then Aragorn turned, leading his horse away, and Legolas followed. Elf and Man were soon engaged in private conversation and Éomer was left there, looking out at the bleak future that awaited him.

_At least the fear is lessened when one fights beside friends. _

He turned his gaze up towards the opaque blanket of the night sky.

_Please, oh great Illúvatar, lord of the Valar and of this Middle-Earth...let my people survive this battle. My own life does not matter. But let Rohan survive; let not innocents be slaughtered. And shine your light over the Heir of Isildur and his companions—they have so much yet to offer the world. My last prayer is for my dear sister in Edoras. Keep her safe, I beg of you; may she one day be able to fight beside the Rohirrim. _

Éomer did not know if his prayer would be heard, but it felt good to believe that a higher being was watching over him. This storm of evil would strike fiercely and mercilessly. At least faith offered hope—more so than starless darkness.

_Now, we wait, in the apprehension before the storm... _

_May we live to see the peace that follows it._

* * *

_**Coming Soon: Blood and battle, in the dark of the deepest night. It is time for Éomer to face his fears and help turn the fight for Helm's Deep into one that will be a legendary part of the War of the Ring. **_

_**Late update. Hope it was satisfactory. Please reviews! Even one-liners are better than no feedback at all. Sorry for any typos or grammar errors; I didn't have time to edit this chapter very well. **_


	10. Chapter 10: The Battle of Helm's Deep 1

_**Hello. Well, I haven't updated this in quite a while. I hope the battle scene is satisfactory! **_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own LOTR, the characters, places, or plot contained therein, or the book dialogue contained in this chapter. **_

_**As a final note: Merry Christmas to everyone! Happy Hannukah! Happy Holidays! I love you all!**_

The Battle of Helm's Deep—Part I

_The offspring of misunderstanding  
__Which comes when power falls to the dark  
__The demon that destroys worlds from within  
__And never forgets a single wrong. _

_The bane of humanity, the bane that exists  
__Which will never be overcome  
__War, it is relentless, it does not forgive  
__And never will it really be won. _

Éomer looked over Helm's Deep, scrutinizing every aspect of the Hornburg—the causeway and stream, the ramp and gates and barrier wall. He stood atop the Deeping Wall, and many men milled around him; he was positioned at the edge, looking out at the expanse of the stronghold. Théoden stood on Éomer's right, and Gamling was nearby as well, for he led those who watched the Dike.

"I will array my strength on this wall," said Éomer, after some consideration. "Defense is doubtful on the Deeping Wall and tower. If you will take care of the positioning of the others from Edoras and the Westfoldmen, we should be able to spread our forces wisely."

Théoden nodded in agreement as he stroked his chin thoughtfully, keeping his eyes out on the area before them. It was still night, and they had to mobilize quickly—the shadow of the enemy was drawing ever closer. "The wall is formidable," said the king. "Your best archers will do well here, and your best swordsman. It is thick enough for you to have two rows—at the most four, but that would most likely crowd it." Théoden's hand ventured into a stone cleft in the parapet. Éomer could barely see over the top of it, because of its height.

"Very well," said Éomer, looking into his uncle's weary eyes. "I will ready my men."

He departed from the king and Gamling, and left them standing at the edge of wall, peering out into the darkness and gloom. He went to the stairway that ran down from the outer court, and took the stairs there. As he walked, he was always aware of the inhospitable stone walls; they made the halls and pathways of Helm's Deep cold and closed in. But what else was to be expected as war drew nearer, in the form of thousands of shadowed footsteps?

As he left the wall, Éomer heard a familiar, husky voice, carrying on about archery, sleep, and orc-necks. He let the tension slip for a moment and smiled at what was recognizable as one of Gimli's friendly arguments with Legolas. Friends, at least, had a way of breaking through the hardest of times with lighthearted innocence and love. However, Éomer suddenly felt a rush of cold wind again; he was suddenly reminded that some friends may not survive this battle, and the bright laughter would be lost, extinguished in the night.

* * *

Time passed slowly that night, like a long, drawn-out breath. Éomer watched as the men prepared themselves. He himself was standing against a wall in the outer court, already vested in his armor. The mail was heavy and drew a warm sweat from his body. He had not yet put on his traditional helmet, with the long tail of pale golden horse-hair; it rested in the crook of his arm, and its shining metal lightly touched the protruding hilt of Gúthwinë. However, the shine was dulled in the darkness. Scarce torches, candles, and lanterns provided luminescence for the soldiers as they collected weapons and shields mechanically.

Many wore unfathomable expressions. Their glances passed over Éomer and over one another, as though nothing held significance anymore. Éomer did not find any fault in their lack of spirit—he, too, had plenty of doubt and grief within him. How could their numbers triumph against such a vast enemy? The stronghold had always held fast in past days, but what if it was overwhelmed? The Uruks would break upon the stone and climb it, rushing the forces of Men and destroying them, like wildfire spreading through a forest.

Éomer shifted, giving an almost imperceptible sigh.

He had resigned himself to not go to the caves behind the walls of the Hornburg. He knew that the women and children of the Westfold had taken shelter there, and was loathe to see their tears and hopelessness as their sons, fathers, and brothers, were torn away to fight. He could see the Westfold soldiers entering to get their weapons. _Some are still so young...some, too old, _he thought, his shoulders sagging—seemingly from the weight his heart carried. He saw some boys enter, the stain of youth still upon their clean-shaven faces and fearful eyes; eyes that could not comprehend death. Men also entered who were old enough to be their great-grandsires. At least these elderly men, with their frail bodies long devoid of muscle and youthful fitness, had already experienced life.

The area was basically silent. Some nervous whispers and questions were heard here and there, but mostly, it was a place full of contemplative thought; all thoughts and emotions were contained in the minds of the thinkers. War was here. There was no longer any time for fear, sadness, or anger to show.

It was time to fight.

Éomer slipped into the crowd ascending the steps to the wall, becoming one with them and blending in inconspicuously. Once they stood upon the Deeping Wall, however, he would assemble them and speak to them—no longer comrade, but leader.

* * *

Westfoldmen guarded the Dike. Éomer thought of them as he stood in formation on the wall, alongside his men. His heart was beginning to beat quickly, for the torches of the enemy could now be seen as the Orcs and Uruks advanced silently—their glow, however, was not like the pinpoint light of stars; they were small, deadly, fanatical flames. The front ranks were approaching those on the Dike. Éomer looked back and upwards, at an upper court on the tower, but he could not see the king. He knew that Théoden stood in that court. He had not had time to say certain things to his uncle...and now, regret was in his heart.

Their foes looked up with avaricious, wolfish stares.

Then, it began, with barely a millisecond of complete silence before everything plunged into the chasm of battle.

The stone foundations seemed to vibrate as the Dike erupted in death screams and battle cries. There were many ranks there, and the sound of galloping horses across the ramp and field could be heard in the chaos. Almost without thinking, Éomer yelled the command for certain sectors of the wall to draw arrows. When he commanded them to fire, hundreds of bowstrings sang in unison as they released a rapid and fatal rainfall of projectiles. The archer a few men down from Éomer handled his bow so fluidly that it seemed a part of him; Legolas Greenleaf was the sole elf among the men, but his arrows never strayed. Gimli stood beside him. He was unable to see over the parapet, but gnashed his teeth and wrung his hands around his axe restlessly. Aragorn stood at Éomer's side.

Amidst the cries and sounds of war, a cry from the back of the wall could barely be heard. Éomer himself did not perceive it, until his attention was drawn to it.

"Éomer!" called Legolas, his keen ears having sensed the drowned-out words. "Somebody yells for you from the back ranks! They say that the rearguard of the Westfolders has been driven in from the Dike!"

Éomer immediately turned, rushing past a blur of faces until he saw a breathless Westfolder at the head of the stairs. "What is the situation?" he yelled over the roar of the battle.

"The enemy is at hand!" the man replied. "We loosed every arrow that we had, and filled the Dike with Orcs. But it will not halt them long. Already they are scaling the bank at many points, thick as marching ants. But we have taught them not to carry torches."

Éomer wondered slightly at the last statement, then decided that he would rather not know the details of bloodshed at the moments. He hastily gave the man instructions and where to get reinforcement. The Westfolder made to leave, but turned back.

"My lord...it is not just Orcs, there are Uruks, and Wild Men too..."

Éomer nodded, and the man sped away.

* * *

The fighting continued in a blur of screams and blood for more hours, until midnight had passed and the world plunged into a complete, utter darkness. As Éomer continued to stand along the wall, drawing, notching, and releasing arrows, he noticed with apprehension the heaviness of the air around him, and looked up at the sky. He could see nothing. Were the stars hidden behind weighted clouds?

His wondering ended as drops of moisture came down. Then, a flash of lightning sent abrupt illumination into the world, and the tiny, pin-drops of rain became a fierce downpour. In that moment of light, Éomer had seen tiny black forms pouring over the Dike and into the breach...now, the real assault had begun.

They reached the wall.

The enemy was greeted with the huge rock structure, and they sent a barrage of arrows upwards. Most either overshot or fell short of the parapet and area directly above, where men stood revealed...but some found their victims, and soldiers fell onto the hard, hostile stone with heavy thuds.

A harsh trumpet sounded. Some Orcs continued their attack on the walls. Others, however, sheltered themselves behind shields emblazoned with white hands and went along the causeway with the wild men. Éomer saw this as he looked down and sideways. _They head for the gates, _he thought, with a moment of clarity in his thoughts. He looked around, until he saw Aragorn in the midst of the battle.

"Shoot at the causeway!" Éomer yelled. Aragorn took up the call, and many bows turned in unison, and storms of arrows were unleashed at the Orcs there.

Many of their foes fell, and were forced to break formation. Some of the wild men let madness and the rush of battle overcome them, and they surged forth, some blaring out more of the forsaken trumpet-notes. Éomer could hardly see them as he blinked away the unyielding rain that dripped into his eyes from his helmet. The storm had added to the night's opaqueness, and made everything even less visible. Most of the arrows were shot when the lightning flashed, and gave the soldiers along the wall a glimpse of the servants of Mordor.

In was by the lightning's elucidation that Éomer saw why most of his soldiers were shooting at the front ranks of Orcs and wild men on the causeway. Their foes had two long tree trunks, so heavy that many of them had to carry each. Éomer did not need any explanation of what they were doing—those trunks would ram down the gate, and give their adversaries complete access to the interior of the stronghold.

Shielded by those around them, the Orcs with the trunks were easily able to swing the trunks against the timbers that supported the gates. They did so, and a mighty crash was heard and felt. Parts of the stone structure broke off and plummeted downwards.

There was another flash...and Éomer saw the gates barely holding on, and hundreds of black shapes pouring into Helm's Deep by other means.

A hand grasped his shoulder, and Éomer whirled around to see Aragorn's eyes staring into his—eyes that were not crazed by the frenzy of warfare, but that held a fierce determination and willingness to protect.

Aragorn yelled over the sound of rain and thunder. "Come! This is the hour when we draw swords together!"

Éomer nodded, and let that determination seep into him as well. Aragorn took off running, his long legs carrying him easily along the length of the wall, and Éomer ran after him. As he ran, he stopped some of the better swordsmen that he passed and made them come as well—it was time for their steel to sing.

Aragorn's destination was a small door on a western wall, which led down towards the gate. He waited for Éomer to catch up to him. Then, they looked at one another in a brief moment of understanding before swinging the door open and rushing through it, springing into the enemy and heat of the fight with fires of war kindled in their eyes. Their swordsmen followed.

Éomer's hand found Gúthwinë's hilt.

_May my blade be true this day...for love, for friendship, for honor...for Rohan... _

"_Gúthwinë!"_ he cried, unsheathing it. The steel flashed before his eyes...in unison with Aragorn's mighty sword, which was drawn beside him. _"Gúthwinë for the Mark!"_

"_Andúril!"_ cried Aragorn, raising the Sword of Kings_. "Andúril for the Dúnedain!" _

Then, they sprang forth, and their swords began to drink heavily of the blood of wild men. Éomer heard a shout rise from the upper levels, as many saw Andúril at work in defense of the world of Men. "_Andúril! Andúril goes to war. The Blade that was Broken shines again!" _

As the fighting continued, and Éomer lost all sense of thought in the midst of the bloodshed, his final contemplation was that he fought beside a legend.

But there was more than one hero fighting there today...and indeed, two men who would someday be kings and legends fought beside each other, one bearing Andúril and one bearing Gúthwinë.

And before their ferocity, enemies fled.

* * *

Aragorn and Éomer made their way to the gate. There, Éomer halted—he heard the roar of distant thunder, and noticed that the lightning no longer flashed directly overhead. How much time had passed as they fought? The blood of many stained Gúthwinë's blade, and Éomer knew that it covered his hands, clothing, and face as well. The corpses that they had left behind them testified to the fact that both men had fought long and hard.

The gate itself was nearly in ruin as the tree-trunks continued to crash against it. Hinges were bent and broken; bars and timbers had been torn and cracked. It would not stand long.

"We did not come too soon," observed Aragorn.

Éomer, however, looked at the causeway, and at the numbers of foes gathered there, with the battle fully raging. They had to reinforce the gate. "Yet we cannot stay here beyond the walls to defend them," he said, somewhat quietly. Aragorn followed his gaze quizzically. "Look!" Éomer continued, pointing and looking back at his comrade. "Come! We must get back and see what we can do to pile stone and beam across the gates within." He turned, and began running back in the direction from whence they had come. "Come now!" he yelled over his shoulder. He heard Aragorn's footsteps and knew that he followed.

Éomer had to run over many horrid corpses that lay slain. However, at one point, one of those "corpses" stirred, and then many did. He came to an abrupt halt as the dead rose. The gleaming, fanatical eyes of those who had faked dead glared at him greedily, and Éomer looked down to see one of them wrapping a strong hand about his ankle. Unable to stop his momentum, Éomer fell.

Dark metal flashed, and a shadow came over him. Éomer looked up at three huge Orcs, their mutilated faces twisted in grins of pure evil.

_This is the end..._

_At least I have done my service to Rohan. _

Knowing that resistance was no longer an option, Éomer shut his eyes and loosened his grip on Gúthwinë's hilt...

* * *

_**Coming Soon: **_

_**The Battle of Helm's Deep, Part II**_

_**Please R & R!**_


	11. Chapter 11: The Battle of Helm's Deep 2

_**Hullooooooooo! Typing o's is fun. **_

_**Disclaimer: Nyaaaaaaa. A's are fun too. **_

* * *

Chapter 11: The Battle of Helm's Deep, Part II

_Open your eyes to realize  
__There is no shining light  
__Open your heart to realize  
__There is still a beat inside. _

_You are not gone  
__But death may yet come  
__You are not lost  
__But your end has begun._

In the blur that reality had become, Éomer thought he saw a fleeting shadow. It caught his attention—something had halted the prospect of imminent death. His eyes had been shut, but now he opened them, only to find the form of the Orcs moving away and feeble light coming down again.

There was suddenly a guttural cry.

"_Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!" _

It all happened quickly, but soon an axe had been swung forward and the two looming figures above Éomer fell, decapitated. Startled and in a daze, he started to struggle to his feet. The urgency and intensity of battle made their way into his mind again.

_I've survived...somehow, I survived..._

Aragorn's familiar face was soon in sight, and Éomer gratefully let the other man help him to his feet. The two fled. Somewhere in that time span, Éomer managed to sweep Gúthwinë up off the floor by the bloody hilt. As they barred themselves behind the iron doors of the postern, Éomer felt himself trembling slightly as he caught his breath.

He heard the plodding footsteps of someone behind him, standing beside Aragorn. Éomer turned—and looked downwards. He smiled with the most sincere gratitude he had ever felt to see his savior.

"I thank you, Gimli son of Glóin! I did not know that you were with us in the sortie. But oft the unbidden guest proves the best company. How came you there?"

The dwarf smiled back. The room was dark, but Éomer could see that Gimli's reddish beard hung in dirty tangles and was matted with bloody filth. Streaks of grime hid his natural skin color. However, it seemed that he was more at peace now than ever—in the midst of battle, Gimli had found his calling, and it made his smile all the more genuine. "I followed you to shake off sleep," said the dwarf with casual conceit. "But I looked on the hillmen and they seemed over large for me, so I sat beside a stone to see your sword-play."

Éomer gripped his friend's shoulder affectionately. "I shall not find it easy to repay you."

"There may be many a chance ere the night is over, but I am content. Till now I have hewn naught but wood since I left Moria."

Both found themselves laughing slightly. It was like a moment of joy in the midst of death and sadness, and Éomer treasured it dearly. It was almost as though here, with his friends, he could forget the sounds of warfare that resonated throughout the keep and leaked into the postern through the door. Aragorn grinned from where he was leaning against the far wall.

That moment was soon over, though, as the three glanced back at the door and raised their weapons in determination.

* * *

How could so many still stand when thousands had fallen? 

Stepping out onto the Deeping Wall again had dashed much of Éomer's hope. It seemed that the host of Orcs had increased in number, even though they had been fighting for...what was it? Hours? It seemed like so much longer, now more than ever. The enemy was raising ladders faster than they could be cut down, and hundreds infested the wall with Orcs climbing up them like a deathly swarm of insects. They were black and without detail in the night.

Éomer cut down some of the Orcs nearest to him, and turned to face Aragorn, who was in battle. "The men are fading!" he shouted.

Aragorn sprang forward to stand beside him. "Then you must rouse them," he said between heavy breaths. "You are their leader. You must be their hope...their inspiration." Both men looked up to the heavens, and at the moonlight that brought no more hope than the torchlight inside.

"Will you stand beside me?" asked Éomer.

Aragorn only needed to nod.

The two swords shone again, even though their blades were covered in the blood of many fallen foes. They rallied the men with cries and rowdy words, which supplied a momentary fix of vigor.

However, the rush wore off, and Éomer and Aragorn tried to raise their spirits three times before focusing on their individual battles again.

"_They are in the Deep! They have gone through the culvert!" _

Éomer turned to see the shadowy forms fighting with mounted guards in the Deep, charging through the streams in the culvert, and forming large groups beneath the cliffs.

_They are behind the wall...even hundreds of years worth of sturdy stone can hold back this foe..._

He heard a cry, so fierce that it stood out in the thundering chaos of the battle. It was the same cry that had rescued him. He barely caught the sight of Gimli leaping down from the wall and resuming his fighting behind the wall. For some reason, it made Éomer feel relieved to see Gimli and Gamling there side by side, because it finally seemed that they were making slow, visible headway. One of the Westfold sectors had followed Gamling into the Deep. Now, there was a steady force fighting there, and Éomer felt that he could breathe for a moment.

"_Éomer!" _

He barely heard his name being called. But suddenly, there was Legolas, running towards him, bow in one hand and dagger in the other.

"The men have found a quick way of bringing down the ladders," said the elf breathlessly. "The western part of the wall is cleared! If we bring them down, the only battles to fight are here, atop the wall...then we have a chance at victory."

Éomer could only look at his friend speechlessly. A chance at victory? It seemed like only a few minutes ago that they had been losing desperately. The main battle was now on the wall and in the caves.

Legolas continued when Éomer did not answer. "If our fighters are successful in the culvert, there will be some time of rest up here whilst they gather their forces again. It will be a long enough lull to get some more arrows to the archers."

"You may be right," Éomer finally responded. He gave a small smile. "Let us make it easier for the men to bring down the ladders. Swords and knives are needed up here...so let us find our enemy, that our blades may do the necessary work."

Legolas nodded, and the two emerged again into the midst of the battle.

* * *

It happened as Legolas had predicted, and Éomer soon found himself standing amongst the fallen in a moment of quiet. It was only then that he noticed his weariness. He and Aragorn were both against the wall, leaning against their swords, trying to catch their breath. Aragorn cast an envious glance at Legolas, who, with the stamina of his kin, was not yet as tired as they. The elf was whetting his knife. 

"It will be drier above," came a clear voice. "Come, Gamling, let us see how things go on the wall!"

Éomer smiled at the way Legolas' eyes brightened at hearing Gimli's voice, and at the way Aragorn suddenly stood erect to greet his friend. Their small companion was ascending, and soon made his way onto the wall, with Gamling the Old beside him. They were both a sight. The Deeping-stream had overflowed with rainwater, so both were drenched as well as covered in the gore of their enemies.

But Gimli came forward, patting his axe, with the elation of the fight still in his eyes.

"Twenty-one!" he said triumphantly. Éomer vaguely wondered what significance the sudden outburst had, but then remembered the game between Gimli and Legolas when Aragorn rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Legolas smiled cockily. "Good! But my count is now two dozen. It has been knife-work up here."

All fell silent then. Éomer turned around so that he faced the landscape leading away from the Hornburg; he saw silent plains and gentle hills, over which muted stars gave forth their strongest effort to produce light and peeked out from behind the gray storm clouds. When Aragorn spoke, Éomer noticed that the ranger was right beside him, also staring out into the distance.

"This is a night as long as years," he said. "How long will the day tarry?"

Gamling climbed up wearily. "Dawn is not far off. But dawn will not help us, I fear."

At that moment, the spark of hope was awoken in Aragorn's eyes, and Éomer saw the face of a king. "Yet dawn is ever the hope of men."

"But these creatures of Isengard, these half-orcs and goblin-men that the foul craft of Saruman has bred, they will not quail at the sun. And neither will the wild men of the hills. Do you not hear their voices?" There was a distinct quaver in Gamling's voice.

Éomer joined in the conversation then. "I hear them, but they are only the scream of birds and the bellowing of beasts to my ears."

Gamling went off in a monologue then that outlined his hopelessness. Éomer half-listened, preferring to have some time to not think about the war. This was the only time he had to concentrate on the personal problems that plagued him. To him, Théoden was an uncle, not the king, and his uncle was fighting somewhere. His dear sister was back in the halls of Edoras, hopefully safe. And here _he _was—without any endurance, it seemed, left in his body, and with a parched throat and blood-slick sword. At least having Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli there offered a small amount of comfort.

"Nonetheless day will bring hope to me," said Aragorn in response to what Gamling's troubled words. "Is it not said that no foe has ever taken the Hornburg, if men defended it?"

Éomer sighed, remembering lore, and contemplating how reality and lore often did not comply with each other. "So the minstrels say," he remarked sullenly.

He felt Aragorn searching for his eyes, and finally gave in, looking over at his friend. It looked very much like Aragorn would be willing to believe in ancient songs and tales if they offered a light to shine through dark times.

"Then let us defend it," he said with conviction. "And hope!"

Éomer felt some of that conviction seep into him, and nodded with what determination he could muster. Trumpets sounding met his ears, and he turned back to the Hornburg, taking hold of Gúthwinë's hilt again.

* * *

Then, the wall gave a mighty tremble as flame and smoke flashed in the culvert, and the five of them fell to the wet, blood-covered ground. 

"Devilry of Saruman!" Even as he cried, Aragorn sprang to his feet, Andúril in hand. He was running towards the breach. "They have crept in the culvert again, while we talked, and they have lit the fire of Orthanc beneath our feet. _Elendil, Elendil!" _

With those final, furious shouts, Aragorn was gone. Gimli and Legolas glanced at one another, and then at Éomer, until Legolas followed Aragorn into the Deep.

Éomer began to follow as well—until he heard the protesting moan of large, wooden structures being raised behind him. He looked around as the Rohirrim poured in, ready to stand in this last defense. It was now possible to hear the Orcs climbing the ladders at an impossibly rapid pace.

"_Take your stand, men of Rohan!" _he called out. _"For the Mark!" _

They echoed his cry, and their shouts died down just as the enemy began to infest the wall, and Éomer found himself staring into a grotesque face that seemed the incarnation of evil itself.

Gúthwinë gleamed, and all it took was one sweep of the blade to send that monstrous head rolling across the ground into oblivion.

* * *

Though Éomer was fighting harder than he had ever fought, the defense was driven back—simply by the sheer number of Orcs coming onto the wall. Gamling ran up beside him, turning away so as to continue fighting while he yelled. 

"_What now, my lord?" _he shouted above the screams and wails of death.

Éomer took a breath, trying to gain some clarity. "Lead them into the Deep, where there is bloodshed and confusion," he said to himself.

"_What?" _

But even as Gamling wondered what he had said, Éomer called out orders.

"_Retreat into the Deep!" _he screamed, his voice hoarse and throat pained. _"Back into the culvert! RETREAT!" _

They ran in a desperate flee, moving back from the wall. Some leapt down, while others branched off into the stairwells. Éomer continued to yell his commands. He himself would not retreat until his men had cleared the wall. _"TO THE CAVES!" _

"_You heard the man! Get to the caves!" _

The others had taken up the order. One voice, husky and indignant, rang out clearer than the rest. Éomer, with Gamling still beside him, immediately began searching. He did not have to look long—there stood Gimli, his axe still sweeping about him, yelling as the enemy fell around him.

"Come, Gimli!" called Éomer, motioning for the dwarf to join the retreat.

"Let me take a few more of them down with me!"

In the end, Éomer practically had to drag his friend down into the Deep. The atmosphere was much different, but at least there would be more room to fight. The enemy pursued them tirelessly, though. Éomer could almost feel their foul breath against him, and the repulsive odor of their blood haunted him constantly. He was running with all of his speed, and Gimli tried to keep up with him, his stout legs pumping tirelessly. Almost all of the men were ahead of them, and some had already made it into the caves.

After what seemed like an eternity, the retreat was complete. Éomer looked around at all of those present and was dismayed to see that some he knew were missing. He prayed that they had not fallen...but knew that the death of some loved ones was inevitable.

"Eight fell on the Wall, my lord," said one of the soldiers, wiping a dirty cloth across his forehead to mop up the blood. "At least, eight that we know of. Many must have fallen who were part of other sectors. That count is only from one division."

Éomer only nodded numbly. He walked over to where Gimli stood by the entrance, gripping his axe readily and staring out.

"The enemy is coming," growled the dwarf.

The pursuit would arrive within minutes. Éomer took hold of the back of the dwarf's mail, drawing him a few paces backwards. "Do not let them see you. You may have a crossbow bolt in your eye before you have the chance to slay even one of them."

Surprisingly, Gimli did not argue. "Twenty-seven," he said. "Twenty-seven thus far. I wonder if Master Legolas has managed to surpass _that _count. I wonder..."

Éomer was suddenly touched at the genuine concern he saw in Gimli's eyes. There was no masking the sounds that came from the culvert, and he knew that the dwarf had come to care for Legolas and Aragorn as brothers. "They are strong fighters," he said, putting a hand on Gimli's shoulder. "They will hold their ground."

Gimli looked up at his friend and nodded, but his doubt was obvious. "Boromir was also a strong fighter. But when three arrows pierced him, he fell. He was the first of our company of nine to fall. How many more of us will be gone before this war is over? How can four young hobbits survive such darkness? We have been separated. Gandalf is gone, somewhere in the plains. Merry and Pippin have been taken captive. Frodo and Sam are journeying towards the Land of Shadow, perhaps facing things far worse than what we are facing, and Boromir is gone. Now I have only Legolas and Aragorn...and I do not even know if they are well. Perhaps I am alone."

Éomer was unsure of how to respond. Never had the sarcastic, gruff dwarf ever betrayed such emotion and fear, such a love for his friends. He truly hoped those weren't tears glistening in Gimli's eyes, because they might cause tears to come to his own eyes.

"You are never alone," he said.

The sounds drew nearer.

"Our friends are out there fighting for freedom...and now, _our _time has come."

Gimli nodded in agreement. He and Éomer ceased their conversation then, allowing for the silent understanding between them to develop. Their host was behind them, and this was their final stand.

Éomer did not need to hear or see their foes to know that they had arrived at the caves. He felt their presence, and Gúthwinë stirred to life in his grasp.

* * *

_**Coming Soon: **_

**_Chapter 12: When Wars are Won_**

_**When a battle is won by worldly standards, what is lost on a personal level? Friends? Loved ones? Or maybe...you simply lose a part of yourself.**_


	12. Chapter 12: When Wars Are Won

_**Okay—I know I suck at updating. I fail at life. Please read, if you can even remember what's happening! (Because even I had to look at the last chapter to write this one...yeah, kinda sad...)**_

_**As usual, my disclaimer for this chapter has mainly to do with the book dialogue—but of course, with the rights to Tolkien's world as well. **_

_**Disclaimer: I disclaim rights to the book dialogue and Tolkien's world. **_

_**Either I'm very clever or just like to throw you off by putting waaaay too many words into my nifty little intro. **_

_**Frodo: SHUT UP ALREADY. **_

_**Okay, fine! Here you go, the magnificent (hopefully) Chapter 12!**_

* * *

Chapter 12: When Wars Are Won

_I'm searching the blood-stained pavement  
__And I'm wondering where you are  
__I'm wondering if you can hear me  
__Because I've been calling, calling...  
__I'm sorry if you're out there somewhere  
__Looking for my broken body  
__Because I'd hate to know that you're feeling  
__What I'm feeling now.  
__Please don't tell me  
__There's nothing left to tell  
__Don't let me hear from foreign lips  
__That you were the first to fall.  
__You're not another number,  
__Another hindrance burned;  
__You're not a loss I could live with,  
__Because we have yet to share much more;  
__You're not the wine in the victor's cup  
__When we toast the casualties of war..._

_Can you hear me? You can awaken now, we've won  
__But still you're gone  
__Still you're gone  
__And I'm still calling...calling..._

Crimson darkness filled every corner of Éomer's vision in his last blind rush, and his sword arm was forced to lead him with life-like instinct while his vision and other senses gave in to confusion. His head was throbbing. Screams reverberated steadily around him, and perspiration that had built up because of the closed quarters in the Deep robbed any thought of comfort from him. He had lost sight of Gimli; he had lost sight of everyone. Every moment was consumed by another enemy towering over him. He heard the commotion on the Wall from afar; the distant sound of people he loved crying out as they died became nothing more than inscrutable ringing that lingered in his ears.

More and more, however, he was finding himself able to breathe. He would spend moments teetering on the brink of a nonexistent attack. The foes that had confronted him were now the bodies that hid the ground, and as the number of corpses beneath his feet grew, the number of assaults that came his way began to ebb. Éomer was distrustful of even a single empty second that passed. He remained ready and driven by war-lust, his sword itching in his grasp as he spun, looking for something to cut down. A phantom taunted him and caused his readiness, but never took the tangible form of an orc or Uruk.

Long moments passed like this before Éomer realized that there was nothing left to fight.

He slowed, at last allowing himself to draw breaths of stale, death-tainted air. Many rushing footsteps covered the land outside of the deep, causing what felt like a small earthquake. It was as though thunder was rippling across the ground and causing tremulous reverberations to reach deep into the fortress. Unearthly wailing accompanied the hasty footfalls, and then the earth itself seemed to stir to life. Éomer was lost in an instant where the light of dawn seemed to touch even the deepest levels of the Hornburg, and a remote murmur spoke of trees coming to life.

A profound relief touched his heart: it was over. He did not need to see it to know it. He heard it, felt it, and sensed it in the very core of his being.

After the initial victory, Éomer found himself wandering about the Deep. Many orcs stared up at him with eyes no less dead than they had been in life. But every now and then, a bloodstained face would greet him and stir an unwanted memory, and those memories flashed before his vision in a torrent of regret. There were people he cared for among the dead. Every other lifeless gaze reminded him of the man's laughter, of some jest passed between them over ale, of the dead soldier affectionately grooming his horse without knowing that neither of them would live to see their old age.

He heard the sounds, the hails and cries of those living. Those in the deep were beginning to drift towards him and collect about him. But Éomer secluded himself in mourning. He simply stood, no longer willing to let his feet carry him forward, and tried in vain to grieve for every last fallen comrade. There were too many; they were a single onslaught, viciously tearing away Éomer's ability to feel individual sadness for the loss of their lives. That hurt him more than anything.

He was no novice in the world of loss and death, but he knew now that one could never entirely adjust to its sting.

"Éomer."

The familiar gruff voice surprised him slightly, and he turned see Gimli, his axe-blade slick with fresh blood. The dwarf carefully made his way around the bodies that littered the ground. Éomer started towards him and they met halfway. Gradually, as he looked around, Éomer saw more living men coming his way. Blinded by death, he was just beginning to look at the life that had prevailed. In his opinion, too few had lived and too many had died—but that would have been his opinion if even one of his companions had fallen, due to the immeasurable value of a single life.

He clasped Gimli's shoulder. "It is good to see you on your feet, master dwarf," he said. "But I had no doubt of your sturdiness."

Despite the circumstances, Gimli grinned mischievously. "Aye, but unfortunately, the same sturdiness was not extended to that last orc whose neck I cleaved, even with that iron-collar around his neck. I highly doubt the elf has surpassed a count of 42."

Éomer returned the smile, thankful for the slight reprieve of Gimli's teasing towards Legolas. He remembered for a moment the dwarf's earlier fear. Although it could not be confirmed yet that Aragorn and Legolas had survived, it did their hearts good to believe it was so.

"You have not sustained any dire wounds, but the gash across your forehead worries me," said Éomer. "I would suggest finding a way to bind it so that it does not bleed so profusely."

Gimli's hand went briefly to his forehead as he searched himself for some sort of clean linen. He reached for the shirt underneath his mail. "Give me a moment to find something."

It was then that Éomer turned away from Gimli, and the sight of a face he had known since childhood brought him inordinate relief. Gamling was walking towards him. The old man's head was still held high, despite the weariness that was sure to affect him more because of his age and the aftermath of the battle. Quite a few others followed behind him.

"My lord," said Gamling, giving a slight bow. Éomer had to control himself against a frustrated sigh; battle should eradicate the need for formalities. "The king and others will want to know how many have survived that were driven back into the Deep. Perhaps we should emerge and give them some comfort?"

"Of course," said Éomer promptly. He did not wish to be among the dead any longer. He would return later, or others would, but at the moment he only wanted to taste fresh air and be assured that some others had survived. Silently, he motioned forward, and the men began to follow him out of the Deep. Gamling came to walk beside him. Immediately behind came Gimli and Éomer saw a linen band covering his forehead, even though the blood soaked through slightly. It seemed reasonably clean and he wondered how the dwarf had managed to produce it.

At long last, they came down from the Dike, and there before them were many friends who had lived. Éomer's heart settled as he saw his uncle, standing out among the ground as a king should, and Aragorn and Legolas beside him. He glanced at Gimli and saw the dwarf's eyes alight with relief. Perhaps it had been folly to worry so, but even the best fighters could fall when overwhelmed by a vast enemy.

There was another figure among them, and his presence both confused and reassured Éomer. The old man's white robe's were stained with blood and dirt, but still managed to take on an unearthly shine, and he immediately captured the attention of any who laid eyes on him. When had Gandalf arrived? Suddenly, Éomer caught himself grinning; when did a wizard ever announce his coming? But he knew, deep down, that this victory against terrible odds was probably due to him in great part.

"Forty-two, Master Legolas!" Gimli called out. "Alas! My axe is notched: the forty-second had an iron collar on his neck. How is it with you?"

The elf grinned indulgently, and again Éomer marveled at the extent of the friendship the two opposites shared. "You have passed my score by one. But I do not grudge you the game, so glad am I to see you on your legs!"

Éomer parted ways from Gimli slightly so that he could be reunited with Legolas and Aragorn. As he passed by, he locked eyes with Aragorn for a moment; their own bond had been strengthened by their moments fighting together. There was a certain amount of grief in the grey-green stare that greeted him, but Éomer also found immeasurable hope there, gained simply by the sight of friends. The gaze was accompanied by a small smile and nod, which Éomer returned without second thought. If this man could comfort so by simply looking at him, Éomer did not doubt that his character would be the kind to restore a nation to its former glory.

But at the moment, he had another king to see. He went before Théoden. His uncle gave a warm smile and reached out, touching Éomer's shoulder lightly. Éomer returned the touch—though, truly, he longed to take the man before him in a fierce embrace as he would have done immediately as a child. This was his beloved uncle, his second father. None could be as successful in making him feel at peace.

"Welcome, Éomer, sister-son!" Théoden said joyfully. "Now that I see you safe, I am glad indeed."

It was a mutual sentiment; for the first time in the day, Éomer felt truly glad, knowing that such a treasured member of his family was safe. The king had been liberated from his darkness and was now, in turn, helping to liberate the world from the darkness that threatened it from Mordor. Never again would a king of Rohan sit back in idle discontent while his people died. Théoden would again be the one to lead the men as they fought for the salvation of the common good.

Éomer belatedly returned the greeting, catching himself in deep thought. "Hail, Lord of the Mark! The dark night has passed, and day has come again. But the day has brought strange tidings." To explain, he turned to look at Gandalf, whose gaze was on the forest. His eyes focused on both for a few moments, and then he finally addressed the wizard. "Once more you come in the hour of need, unlooked-for," he said good-naturedly.

He almost laughed at the expression of perfect innocence that Gandalf made as he replied: "Unlooked-for? I said that I would return and meet you here."

"But you did not name the hour, nor foretell the manner of your coming. Strange help you bring. You are mighty in wizardry, Gandalf the White!"

The conversation took a more serious turn then, and Éomer knew that Gandalf was going to do what others had not: finally address the reality of the battle and the men who had fought all night to be victorious in it. "That may be. But if so, I have not shown it yet. I have but given good counsel in peril, and made use of the speed of Shadowfax. Your own valour has done more, and the stout legs of the Westfold-men marching through the night."

Éomer looked at him gratefully. Then he turned back to Théoden, and motioned to the trees with his eyes. The king drew close and whispered to him: "It was as though they had come alive, consuming the enemy when they were driven out of the fortress."

He looked at Gandalf with wonder; how powerful a man was he, to be able to do such a thing. The same inquiring stares fixed the wizard from other men surrounding them.

It was the wizard himself who broke the tension; his long laugh rang clear and everyone was soon smiling or chuckling with him, even though none knew the exact reason for his merriment. "The trees?" asked the old man, catching his breath. "Nay, I see the wood as plainly as do you. But that is no deed of mine. It is a thing beyond the counsel of the wise. Better than my design, and better even than my hope the event has proved."

Théoden started to question the wizard then; together, all listened to a small sample of lore that Gandalf offered, eager to learn of the ancient power lying dormant in the forest.

It was quite possibly that power, along with the strength of will the free-peoples embodied, that would be the salvation of Middle-Earth.

* * *

Over the next few days, Éomer was given the instruction that he would ride with Théoden to Isengard. Gandalf would also be going there, along with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli.

There also came the terrible task of dealing with the corpses and remaining enemies. The only ones who had managed to survive were hillmen, who cried for mercy before the king of Rohan. Éomer was present when it was granted to them, there in the field, with the tender wind shifting the yellowing grass and touching his skin. It was upon the same field that the mounds were raised to bury the men who had given their lives to the service of the Mark. For a long time, Éomer (as well as the others of his company) were unsure of what to do about the immense pile of orc-corpses that was constructed far from the place of their death. There were too many; how could they be buried, or even burned? It was Gandalf who counseled them to simply let the bodies lie.

Éomer cared not that the bodies would rot there. He only cared for this moment, staring at the mass grave before him where his kinsmen would lay. Each man deserved an individual burial and ceremony, but that would be impossible. This was the only way to bury them.

All of the men stood before the grave and were present at the burial. But later on, Éomer was alone with Théoden in a quiet, personal place. They stood underneath the Hornburg. They were beside the grave of the one person who had been granted a personal burial.

Théoden sprinkled dirt on Háma's mound, and Éomer put his hand gently on his uncle's shoulder. He could not be a king in this moment—simply a man who had lost a dear friend of many years. Éomer emptied himself of emotion. He would let the emotion of this death be Théoden's so that he could offer the comfort of his strength. They would depart in a few hours, so they could not tarry, even to mourn Háma. Both were silent for a few moments. Looking at the mound, Éomer remembered his father's death and the childlike view he had had of its severity.

Though he was no longer a child, he felt much the same way now, even if Háma's death affected him less than Éomund's had.

Théoden sighed and put his hand over his nephew's. His voice was quiet, a strong whisper. "Great injury indeed has Saruman done to me and all this land, and I will remember it, when we meet."

There was nothing more to be said. They looked out over the plains and at the sun that was beginning its descent over the hills. Neither noticed someone approach in perfect silence from somewhere in the expanse behind them, for he said nothing, waiting for them to look in his direction.

"We must depart, my friends," said Gandalf, when their attention was finally directed towards him.

Théoden nodded and followed the wizard without a single glance back.

Éomer lingered for awhile, taking in the warmth of the sun and the coldness of loss. When he found that no amount of time here would clear his confused emotions, he too followed, prepared to embark on another journey—even though he would never be free of the events of the past. He could only walk forward now and hope that the world would someday find peace.

* * *

_**Coming Soon: **_

_**Chapter 13: Another Beginning **_

**_Can hope be found after battle? What awaits Éomer at the ruins of Isengard? Power has been overthrown, and new friends are waiting to balance out the cost of death. But even with renewed opportunities, the promise of forthcoming darkness cannot be overlooked. _**


	13. Chapter 13: Another Beginning

_**Thanks to everyone who's still sticking with this story! I know there's a lot of time between updates, and sometimes I lose my inspiration to write when reviews taper off, but hopefully the story will still stay strong through its end. **_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own the book dialogue in this chapter or anything else recognizable as Tolkien's. However, I did put in a scene between the Three Hunters that isn't in the book. : )**_

* * *

Chapter 13: Another Beginning

_...You enter  
__Into a delicate balance,  
__A clash of life and death,  
__A battle. _

_You pass through a gray sheen,  
__A blaze of the unknown,  
__  
And arrive at another beginning,  
__Where darkness has not expired  
__And sunlight is delayed; _

_But it is a beginning  
__All the same._

Éomer did not wish to enter the forest.

He was not alone in his reluctance; the Riders who formed part of the host that rode towards Isengard also halted hesitantly before the ominous, misted boughs. It seemed that to cross into that entanglement of reaching tendrils would be a certain death, for the earth, black beneath the cover of the trees, was so obscured that it seemed it could open by its own will and swallow them into fathomless darkness.

Éomer rode towards the front of the host, among the ranks of Gandalf and Théoden, along with the three who rode with Gandalf. He looked to the king and saw the same apprehension mirrored in the eyes of the Rohirrim, but they nonetheless plunged forward behind Gandalf as the wizard continued his course. As soon as they passed beneath the canopy, they were engulfed by an aisle of light isolated from the rest of the forest, where the sun still managed to penetrate and illuminate both road and stream.

It was impossible, however, for Éomer to keep his eyes from the rest of the forest. To his left and right it was still the same vast, chaotic gloom.

_It was here that the Orcs came, _Éomer remembered suddenly. Had that been the reason for his earlier fear, the possibility of meeting the enemy once more?

No. He realized quickly that this was not the case. There was power here greater than any enemy, something detached from the Middle-Earth he knew; it was a part of the world that had existed since the beginning of time, a home to the dormant energy of creation and the embodiment of all of the anger that the world had accumulated. What being could step in here and survive if it was not welcome?

Éomer shuddered involuntarily. For a moment, he almost pitied the Orcs...but only for a moment. He bowed his head slightly, letting his helmet and dirty strands of golden-brown hair cover the corners of his vision. The eyes of slaughtered Orcs, full of malice and pain, had started to appear to him in the shadows. He had no desire to witness any more of the hellish apparition, though he still saw the deep grey of the darkness creeping into the corners of the lighted path.

There was scarcely a whisper to be heard; when someone did venture to speak even from the rear of the company, it was a scathing noise. Human speech had no place here. Only Legolas and Gandalf were engaged in soft conversation. From the way they glanced about them—not with fear, but with calculating understanding—Éomer could guess the nature of their words. It seemed somewhat natural that they should speak. They alone were immortal and part of the lifetime that this forest would see.

At times, Éomer lifted his eyes solely to catch a glimpse of them. The two rode very close together. They seemed to encompass all of the light that the sun chose to shed on their path, for Gandalf was radiantly white and Legolas unblemished gold. Gimli sat behind Legolas, and his knuckles could be seen through the cover of his skin as he gripped the elf's tunic—he was afraid. This fear touched the calmness of his counterparts, Éomer noted, for the elf and the wizard glanced at him frequently and tenderly. Aragorn rode behind them slightly, choosing as his place one beside Théoden. This was what was directly before Éomer's sight: immaculate reassurance, blatant fear, and regal countenance.

And where was he in this? Éomer could not help feeling the inferiority of his imperfection, of his status as heir, and his helplessness at leaning closer to the fear.

The path gradually became less mysterious in its clash of light and dark and instead became familiarly unnatural. There was no longer need for complete silence in awe of the forces that surrounded them, but Éomer knew that most every man here longed to leave the forest. Voices were rising, but the voices were uncertain. He himself chose not to speak. He listened instead, for distraction, to the latest argument that had arisen between Legolas and Gimli—some discussion about which was more fascinating and beautiful, the ancient voices of the trees of the ever-glistening walls of a cave.

Éomer himself preferred an open field over both. Given the choice, he would never cease to choose a stretched of rolling hills, bright at dawn, with the autumn grass blending into the early sunlight; a place where he could ride for hours and not reach the end, or stand still and feel impossibly small, or simply look out at the beauty and be proud to call it his home. He was quite content to leave the changing green and gold of the forest to the elves, the night-and-stars of the caves to the dwarves, and the cold touch of white and grey stone to Gondor. Rohan was all he needed. It was there that his heart went now, and he poignantly felt the dull ache that was always present there intensify.

It did not help that he was so close to its security. As the veil of the wood was finally lifted and the sky appeared once more above the world, Éomer realized that he could easily ride east and be promptly in Edoras. He could arrive just as the sun was rising the next day and ride into its blinding magnificence. He could continue all the way to the Golden Hall, letting his steed lead the way through streets that would now be empty. He could go there and let himself be led all the way back to his childhood.

Instead, their destination lay north, towards the Fords of Isen; towards obsidian and emptiness and an evil land that meant nothing.

The entire host had nearly escaped from the trees when Legolas chose to break his calm, quiet demeanor and become the focus of attention for the large number of Riders who had emerged. He cried out, turning abruptly back towards the forest.

"There are eyes!" he said. "Eyes looking out from the shadows of the boughs! I never saw such eyes before."

Everyone was now turned in that direction. To Éomer's surprise, Legolas started to lead his horse swiftly back to the wood, nearly at a full gallop. He wondered for a moment if someone ought to go stop the elf, who was dragging a horrified Gimli back with him, but he and the others had no desire to ride back towards that eerie place for the sake of halting what appeared to be brief lunacy.

But as Éomer looked back at the trees, his thoughts strayed from Legolas and Gimli—the latter of which was shouting in protest—and instead focused on the fact that he did indeed see pinpricks of an intelligent gleam, things that seemed to be none other than strange, unearthly eyes, accompanied by gentle creaking motion.

Gandalf turned Shadowfax partially and called out to his friends, once again able to intervene where nobody else could. "Stay, Legolas Greenleaf! Do not go back into the wood, not yet! Now is not your time."

Now everyone was turned back, watching as Legolas brought his horse reluctantly to a stop. However, none of their eyes lingered there for long, because the forest had come to life.

The trees, tall and bent, were moving the line of the forest forward to engulf the company—or so it seemed. Éomer soon realized that it was not a single moving mass, but a collection of individual bodies. They had elongated limbs the color of bark from which earth-tone garb adhered so closely that it seemed to be part of them. Their eyes peered out from above long tangled beards. One by one, they called more, each calling through their hands and emitting the sound of a low, resonant horn.

More emerged. They were a walking legend, and Éomer, with a touch of childlike delight and intrigue, knew what they were even before Gandalf and Théoden ventured to discuss them: they were the Ents, the herdsmen of the forest.

He was consumed by interest, and alive for what seemed like the first time in days. Instead of hearing his uncle speak of them, Éomer let his own mind wander, and savored the rare luxury of amazement and imagination.

* * *

The clear calls of the Ents did not linger into the night. After sunset, they were replaced by the shrieking, sad cries of the birds that leeched off of the remnants of war. Éomer watched the thin black shapes silhouetted against the night sky with disgust.

"The carrion-fowl have been busy about the battle-field," he said bitterly. Nobody replied, but he had not expected them too.

The world around him contrasted sharply with the images of Edoras that had surfaced earlier and even with the mythical beauty of the Ents. All of the lines that made of the world had faded into a single mass of washed out color, and the moon illuminated only a ghostly sheen of water that was pressed between featureless earth.

"This has become a dreary place," he said, his voice flat. Gandalf looked at him; the dullness of his eyes was an immediate agreement. Éomer looked down at the stream as its thick fluids brushed his horse's hooves. He unwillingly remembered the times when those springs had glittered with clarity.

"What sickness has befallen the river?" he wondered aloud. "Many fair things Saruman has destroyed: has he devoured the springs of Isen too?"

Gandalf murmured an agreement, and as the wizard and Théoden began to argue about the necessity of passing through the fords of Isen, Éomer continued down towards the river. He peered into the bleary darkness that fell around its banks, and he thought he saw yellow eyes; avaricious orbs illuminated in the midst of shadow. But the moment Gandalf and Shadowfax came into view, they shrunk away, as though the very light of the Valar was meeting the darkness within them. Éomer smiled grimly at the Istar's unconscious power.

But then he saw a sight that made his heart freeze within him.

There was a mound, something organized and somber in the midst of the wilderness. Stones were set neatly about it, which was what had caught his eye, and now upon further inspection he saw spears standing around it, glinting stalks laying down a tribute to Rohan. Éomer would know those spears anywhere—he saw them daily in the armory at Edoras.

"Look. Friends have labored here."

The voice was Gandalf's, but Éomer scarcely heard him. His mind was leafing through old memories, memories of death and sorrow. Had those brave men who had fallen beside his father so many years ago also been laid to rest like this? Were they remembered only by a ring of stones, a loose mound of soil? But then he remembered that their bodies had been released into a river. Some were buried in earth, others in fire, others in water. It was all the same thing. Corpses were the dismal, lifeless remnants that were now ingrained constantly in his mind. He could go nowhere without seeing the bodies of the dead, lying on a battlefield or on a pyre or beneath a mound.

"Here lie all the Men of the mark that fell near this place," continued Gandalf, confirming what Éomer had already known: that these were fallen companions from Rohan.

Éomer felt something fierce rise within him as he beheld the spears, still standing guard over Isen—signs of phantoms who followed duties even in death. "Here let them rest!" he said, his voice bearing solemn conviction. "And when their spears have rotted and rusted, long still may their mound stand and guard the Fords of Isen!"

Théoden gave his nephew a momentary, understanding glance, then turned back to Gandalf. "Is this your work also, Gandalf, my friend? You accomplished much in an evening and a night!"

Gandalf went on to quietly describe the burial to those around him. Although Éomer appreciated the gesture, he did not want to hear about more death. He wanted to walk away and go somewhere free of death.

But on this road, there was nothing else. They were heading toward further battle and war. Where one ended, another began, and Éomer knew at that moment that he would never escape the harsh cycle of death that had come to characterize his life.

They continued to ride until they had left the Fords of Isen, and their procession onward was relatively silent, as each member of this company was buried in thought. Éomer almost did not realize it when they arrived at the foot of the Misty Mountains, and a foul mist was shrouding the sky—exhaust from Isengard. His body bore the impact of the journey, however. His mind may have been elsewhere, but every muscle ached for rest.

Éomer's eyes wandered to the pillar of smoke that was mounting itself in the sky; a permanent, hideous, fluid mosaic. The gazes around him were also arrested by the unnatural phenomenon.

Aragorn, who had not spoken for quite some time, finally let his deep, resonant voice be heard as he addressed Gandalf. "What do you think of that, Gandalf? One would say that all the Wizard's Vale was burning."

It was an accurate image—for the most part. But as Éomer watched the vapor, he could tell that it was not the black smoke that rose from a fire; it looked darker than it was, silhouetted against the night sky.

No. It was steam. The steam of Saruman's diabolic, uncaring industries. Éomer had seen many fires, but he had never seen such an all-consuming haze come from the workings of metal and the destruction of life.

"There is ever a fume above that valley in these days," he remarked, "but I have never seen aught like this before. These are steams rather than smokes. Saruman is brewing some devilry to greet us." He thought of the shallow, inky waters of the fords. "Maybe he is boiling all the waters of Isen, and that is why the river runs dry."

Gandalf nodded thoughfully. "Maybe he is," he said. "Tomorrow we shall learn what he is doing. Now let us rest for a while, if we can."

* * *

It was a strange thing. Éomer had never been so exhausted, mentally or physically, and yet as he lay here beneath the stars he could not sleep. Too many thoughts plagued him. They kept him awake, just as they had on all of those nights during his childhood and adolescence when times had been darkest. Éomer had an active, inquisitive, sensitive mind—it gave him no rest.

He drifted aimlessly through many topics: battles, friendship, weariness, death, family, weariness, valor, renown, weariness. Valar, was he tired. But he could not help wondering at what lay ahead and remembering what was in the past. His eyes ached to be shut, but again and again they opened heavily and blearily. Finally, Éomer gave in to the dreadful insomnia. He looked at his sleeping companions. Some of the men turned restlessly, as he did; in fact, he could tell that the majority had not fallen deeply into sleep.

Suddenly, his ears picked up the sound of quiet conversation somewhere to his right. He turned to his side, and could see three figures underneath one of the trees that stood on a slight incline at the beginning of a mountain path. One leaned against the trunk, his head back, touching the bark. The smaller one sat directly in front of him. The third was sprawled out delicately across the lowest of the tree boughs, which was only a foot or two above his companions' heads.

"Our paths have led us to strange places," said Aragorn quietly.

Gimli's gruff voice came up next. "Indeed. Here we set out from Rivendell with the sole idea of reaching Mordor, and our roads diverged. Only two of the company are headed there. Then, we set our minds upon finding the other hobbits, and we have yet to see any trace of them."

"We know that they are alive, and that they are safe," Legolas pointed out, looking down at the dwarf from his branch.

The three hunters were silent for a moment. Éomer imagined that relief passed between them; the knowledge was a small comfort.

Then Aragorn spoke as he absently fingered the leaves and twigs that littered the ground. "And yet everything seems to fit together, does it not? We were diverted from our original purposes, but we found Gandalf when it seemed that he had gone, and we were there to fight alongside my kinsmen at Helm's Deep. It all feels wrong, and yet it all feels right. Everything stands in contradiction. There is much to think on."

Another pause, another moment of night drifting solemnly through their private ring of friendship.

Gimli laughed quietly. "Do you know what I miss the most about those four?" the dwarf asked. "That they could be surrounded by death and battle, yet still find something to smile about, some reason to laugh. Even Frodo, with the Ring about his neck. How is it that our races, the ones with the names and the power and the renown, cannot have the mirth of hobbits? They have wisdom, if anyone does. I miss them."

The last statement was so simple, so pure, that Éomer felt an ache in his heart—not for the hobbits, even though Gimli's description of them made him wish that they were there, but for everyone that he himself missed.

"They were always talking, always laughing," agreed Aragorn.

"Always eating," added Legolas.

Gimli barked out a laugh that caused a few of the slumbering men to start. He immediately brought down his volume, especially when his two companions glared—even though Éomer could tell that their own laughter was rising within them. He did not need to see their smiles in the dark of the night to know that they were smiling.

"Aye, always eating," said the dwarf. "Even when there was nothing to eat!"

And the three laughed quietly as they reminisced.

The conversation continued, but Éomer turned away. He did not belong in that secluded world; he belonged in another, and it was time to let these dear friends have their privacy. He felt lonely—not because he had any lack of love and friendship in his own life, but because the people he loved were not here speaking to him, laughing with him. No part of a fellowship was with him now. Some people that he loved were here, but he could not speak to them about the things that troubled him.

If Éowyn were here, they could have spoken. If Théodred were alive, they could have spoken. But no; his dearest friends were far away, either distanced by land and time or by worlds and death.

Éomer felt many things right then, but the most poignant were sorrow and loneliness.

* * *

Then, suddenly, something happened that brought Éomer violently out of his thoughts, and that brought the entire host to their feet.

There was a collective cry from those standing watch. Darkness was closing in on them—but it was not the dark of the night, not the kind of shadow caused by light. It was complete absence of light, something opaque and menacing. It came from all directions, ready to engulf and consume.

There was a slight moment of chaos; men clamored for weapons, cried out in alarm. Then Gandalf's voice rose above the madness.

"Stay where you are!" he commanded. "Draw no weapons! Wait! And it will pass you by!"

Suddenly, it was upon them. Éomer shut his eyes, honestly wondering if he would be left only with death once the mist passed away.

* * *

_**Coming Soon: **_

_**Chapter 14: The Hopeful and the Fallen**_

_**For the first time, Éomer encounters hobbits, as well as the darkness of the wizard Saruman. Life and death, mirth and evil, collide in the world as well as in his heart. **_


	14. Chapter 14: The Hopeful and the Fallen

**Hey everyone!**

**If you're still reading this story despite my lame update habits, I love you. If you review, you're my hero. **

* * *

Chapter 14- The Hopeful and the Fallen

_He wheels where the shadows are,  
__Where clouds stir in their sleep;  
__He sees a dusty angel there,  
__Alone and obsolete.  
__He looks below, discouraged now  
__By the gray that haunts the sky,  
__A glimpse can tell a history:  
__There's nothing left to die. _

The next few days passed in a gray haze of fog and dimmed sunlight.

They stoically passed through the Wizard's Vale, a place of flat, dismal ruin and wilted vegetation. There were caves of jagged stone in the distance, and Éomer thought that he saw bestial eyes peering out from their shrouded interiors.

The Vale gave way to the Ring of Isengard. The shafted fissures opened beneath their feet, and Éomer caught glimpses of dampened metal and wreckage. He kept his gave locked forward as they traveled along one of the roads, all leading centrally to an imposing black spire.

Soon, they were standing before the gates in silence, and the tower cast its shadow over them. The land around them seemed defeated as they waded through a few inches of water and rubble.

They waited. Nothing happened. Something had been defeated here.

The silence lasted until it was conquered by a bout of laughter from beside the broken doors.

Éomer blinked. Everything had been so awe-inspiring in its degradation, so overwhelming…and now, he was looking at two laughing, smoking figures sitting comfortably atop the debris. At first glance, they seemed to be children. Upon closer inspection, however, their faces were those of full-grown men, even if they contained a certain childish joy.

Right away, Éomer knew who these diminutive figures were.

"Welcome, my lords, to Isengard!"

Éomer couldn't keep the smile from spreading across his face as Meriadoc and Peregrin introduced themselves, impishly welcoming the lords of Rohan and carefully ignoring their friends—until Gimli could take it no longer.

"And what about your companions? What about Legolas and me?" cried the dwarf, interrupting a casual conversation between Meriadoc and Gandalf concerning Isengard's 'new management'.

"You rascals, you woolly-footed and wool-pated truants! A fine hunt you have led us! Two hundred leagues, through fen and forest, battle and death, to rescue you! And here we find you feasting and idling—and smoking! Smoking! Where did you come by the weed, you villains? Hammer and tongs! I am so torn between rage and joy, that if I do not burst, it will be a marvel!"

"You speak for me, Gimli," said Legolas, laughing. "Though I would sooner learn how they came by the wine."

The banter continued, and eventually the conversation shifted as the Halflings—or Hobbits, as they declared they wished to be called—began to explain their race to the stunned men of Rohan.

Meanwhile, Éomer continued to smile to himself. His mind flashed back to his first meeting with the Three Hunters, and the grief that had passed over their faces when Éomer had insinuated that these two were dead. He understood part of that grief now. There was simplistic joy here, enough to brighten even the darkest day. Losing that joy would leave the world a much dimmer place.

Éomer looked to his left, where Aragorn was mounted. The man had yet to say anything; his quiet nature set him apart from the others, for he seemed to have no need to share in the playful exchange. Even the smile across his face grew small and reserved.

However, Éomer recalled the constant look that had thus far haunted Aragorn's eyes: one of resignation, even sorrow, hundreds of emotions layered in fathomless depths. That had changed now.

There was only happiness in Aragorn's eyes.

Éomer cast another look at the merry hobbits, their innocence and mirth pervading the entire atmosphere. Who were these two, that they could steal the sadness from the stare of a reluctant king?

There was something very rare here; very rare, and very special.

* * *

It was soon after that Gandalf took Théoden, Éomer, and the men of Rohan on a short expedition to find Treebeard—an Ent, according to what Meriadoc had been saying.

_Merry, _thought Éomer to himself. _I remember them calling him Merry, before. Merry and…Pippin?_

Somehow, the names fit perfectly.

Éomer looked back over his shoulder at the small party they were leaving behind. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had stayed with the hobbits, and the five of them were crossing the waters, making their way to a small guard-house as they spoke, several of which lined the Ring of Isengard. Briefly, Éomer wondered exactly what strange circumstances had brought together these unusual friends; he had never truly been told, though he supposed it was irrelevant.

As usual, the sight left him with a small pang of exclusion. He looked away, determined to focus on helping the wizard who rode before him.

"Polite young fellows, aren't they?"

Éomer looked to his side as Théoden pulled up. The old man looked rejuvenated, his eyes gleaming. "I never thought I'd see such a sight. Myths are springing to life around us."

"It is a time for myths and legends," said Éomer. The two shared a smile before Théoden went forward to speak with Gandalf.

They were going northward, around the side of the tower. Shadowfax was the only horse that did not trudge sullenly through the waters; the proud beast held its head high, and every step was noble—much like its rider. Éomer, on the other hand, felt exactly like _his _plodding horse. The sight of the hobbits eating and smoking had reminded him of the hunger lying dormant within him, and so much merriment had worn him out, reminding him that he desperately needed rest. He hoped their exchanged with Treebeard, who had apparently managed to overthrow Saruman, would be brief.

Gandalf began to turn inward until he was roughly perpendicular to the wall of the Orthanc. Théoden followed, as did Éomer, but Éomer could see nothing. Orthanc was surrounded by a series of angular metal sheaths that both buttressed the wall and provided its overall atmosphere, and these points formed nooks along the exterior. They were heading towards one now, but Éomer could see only an empty shadow.

Then the shadow moved.

Éomer started. He would never have noticed the pale, earth-toned figure, tree-like limbs creaking as it moved. It looked like the other Ents he had seen, but taller and gnarled, obviously older. Éomer realized in that moment that no two Ents actually looked the same. He felt briefly ashamed that he had never noticed that the same thing was true of trees.

Treebeard took two slow, massive steps forward, emerging into the gray sunlight.

"Young Master Gandalf," he said in a low, rumbling voice. "I am, _hrum_, very pleased you could come."

"Greetings, my old friend," replied Gandalf. "These beside me are Théoden, King of Rohan, and Éomer, Heir of Rohan. They have fought alongside me in battle."

Small, intelligent yellow eyes stared at Théoden and Éomer from behind layers of bark. "Young Masters Théoden and Éomer," he said. "Friends of Gandalf's are friends of the Ents. Welcome to Isengard."

Treebeard turned back to Gandalf. "I believe that trees will grow here again."

Éomer looked around at the lifeless expanse that stretched into the distant. He hoped trees would grow; he hoped this land would produce beauty again someday.

Gandalf smiled. "You have done well, my friend. It appears that Saruman's dominion has been destroyed."

"The Ents went to war," said Treebeard. "We would not stand aside and be destroyed. Now, the evil here is being washed away, and the work of Saruman has crumbled beneath him. But there remains the wizard in his tower."

Théoden turned to Gandalf. "Will we confront him?" asked the king.

Gandalf did not immediately answer. "Treebeard," he said, once again regarding the Ent. "Saruman is weakened, am I correct?"

"Weakened, yes. But he remains alive."

Éomer cast a side-glance at Gandalf and Théoden. "Even at his weakest, he is dangerous," he said, entering into the discussion.

Gandalf paused. His gaze passed over the length of Orthanc, rising hundreds of feet into the air, lingering on the uppermost chambers.

"We will confront him," said the wizard softly. "We will see what we can learn of Sauron's plans. He may help us yet, if he has nothing left to lose."

"And we will rebuild, _hrum,_" said Treebeard. "We will make this a place where there can be life again."

"I am sure it will be beautiful," whispered Éomer, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Treebeard looked down. Éomer wasn't sure if Ents truly smiled, but he thought he saw Treebeard's expression lightening, adopting the surety of hope.

"Yes, Master Éomer," said the Ent. "It will be beautiful again."

"Master Treebeard," said Théoden. "My men are hungry and weary, for we have ridden long and hard. Is there anywhere for them to refresh themselves?"

Treebeard nodded, a creaking, cumbersome movement. "The young hobbits discovered the stores of man-food in the guard-houses, _hrum. _There are beds there for men to rest. The house directly behind you and across the road has food, so they may eat there. The ones alongside it will be the places for rest."

Éomer nearly fainted from relief at the thought of a meal and a bed.

"I thank you, Treebeard, on behalf of all of Rohan," said the king.

"You are welcome, Master Théoden. Now take your men to rest."

* * *

They crowded into the guard-house, seating themselves on the benches. There were shelves lined with salted pork and bacon, as well as some fruits and bread with butter and honey. It put Éomer in good spirits to eat again; he even laughed and jested with the other men, something he had not done in far too long. Théoden and Gandalf remained aloof, planning and keeping to themselves. At some point, the two of them left to deliberate with Treebeard again. Éomer, however, opted to stay.

"Who would have thought that Saruman had so much here, hidden for himself?" commented Erkenbrand.

Éomer smiled. How strange, that he hadn't spoken to Erkenbrand in so long. The twenty men here were of the king's household—they had some relation to Éomer, if distant. And yet, during the ride, they had been like strangers.

It was an interesting feeling, the realization that he had been the cause of his own loneliness. Companionship had been at his side; twenty willing companions, their valor downplayed in the face of the greater war.

Éomer looked around the items stashed on the shelves. On the second shelf to his right, he found several barrels with faded labels that read "Old Toby". Perhaps this was the pipeweed that the hobbits had mentioned.

"Erkenbrand," he said mischievously. "Would you like to spew smoke?"

Erkenbrand looked horrified. "Like the Halflings did? It disturbed me, Lord Éomer. It looked far from pleasant. Besides, you lack the contraptions they carried."

"I do not."

Éomer reached over to his pack, which he had brought down from his mount. After shifting around the items for a few moments, he found what he desired:

A pipe.

"Lord Aragorn carried two of these," he said. "A more intricate one and this one, plain and wooden. He took it out at our last camp; not to smoke, but just to look over it, hold it. He almost left it behind. I forgot to give it back to him today."

"Well then, Lord Éomer, I hope you thoroughly enjoy yourself."

"Come, Erkenbrand! Come outside and try it with me."

"Do you command it, my lord?"

Éomer laughed outright. "Yes, my friend. I command it."

* * *

Éomer collapsed onto one of the barracks in the dim guard-house. Smoking had been disgusting at first, but gradually became oddly addicting. Erkenbrand now believed it to be the singular most satisfying habit in Middle-Earth.

However, Éomer was through with levity for the day. He knew that he would not be allowed to sleep long—a few hours, at the most. Then they would confront the wizard Saruman, who had been in league with darkness. The transition from the hopeful to the fallen was not one he looked forward to.

Fortunately, for the moment, all that existed were the thin sheets around him. Éomer collapsed gratefully into the bed and passed from consciousness to dreamless sleep.

* * *

_**Coming Soon: Chapter 15—Eye of the Enemy**_

_**Éomer expected to encounter Saruman, but never imagined that he would have his first encounter with Sauron as well…**_


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